Something Big In Las Vegas
by Haleine Delail
Summary: On a trip to Las Vegas, something strange gets under the Doctor's skin. It's a mysterious phenomenon that seems to pervade some of the world's most famous hotel/casinos - and the Doctor, at first, cannot explain how it's even possible! But when he runs afoul of an old foe, it all becomes clear... although, some things become very, very grey.
1. Chapter 1

**Happy New Year, friends!**

 **Some of you may be wondering, "Who's the Man in Black?" Others of you perhaps don't care, nor know who the Man in Black is. Either way, this story is for you. I will explain. I will also tell what I hope is an interesting story about Las Vegas and one of the Doctor's oldest enemies!**

 **If you feel like it, go ahead and read The Window on the Left, but if you don't, it doesn't matter. I'll spare you the details, and just let you know that the Doctor and Martha Jones' relationship in this story has progressed into romance. ;-) No canon angst here! **

**So here we go! _Viva Las Vegas!_**

* * *

ONE

Time is a funny thing.

No-one can run from it, nor hide from it. No-one is immune to its effects. Everyone feels its passage, and how it seems to "behave" differently depending upon one's state of mind. People waste it, or save it, according to their desires or needs. Most people believe that regaining it, once it's gone, is impossible, though everyone desperately wishes they could. It's like a weight on all existence, something that slogs forward while those in its thrall try to give it meaning.

Such an inescapable, pervasive thing, is time, yet it is totally, frustratingly out of reach. It just slips by, or runs away like a freight train, and nothing can contain it. No-one fully understands it. No-one can manipulate it, no-one can see it, nor see through or across it to know what it holds, how its threads weave into the fabric of being.

Except for one man.

"And he's burnt the scrambled eggs," Martha Jones muttered, walking into the kitchen in her flat, getting a strong whiff of something charred.

"Hm?" the Doctor asked, looking up from his reverie. His eyes had been fixed on the two slices of bread in his hands, which he had been holding for several minutes, having got stuck on a train of thought, en route to the toaster. "Oh, sorry!"

He put the bread down and made to remove the pan from the burner, but she had beat him to it, and was already scraping the eggs into the rubbish bin.

"It's okay," she said, with a chuckle. "All of time and space, and yet… eggs. Stymied by eggs."

"Yeah. And, actually, late-model Studebakers, for some reason," he muttered, now actually moving toward the toaster with the slices of bread, preparing to deliver them for toasting.

Fluidly, she deposited the pan into the sink, ran a bit of hot water and used a soap-ready wand to wash out the residue. Then she quickly dried the pan with a white cloth that had been hanging from the cupboard door, and placed it back on the stove. She pulled another four eggs out of the fridge with two hands and set about cracking them in the pan once more.

"Sorry," he said again, as he watched her.

Ordinarily, he wasn't a bad cook. In fact, he was quite a good one. Eight centuries of travel had given him quite a sophisticated, intergalactic palate, and once in a while, he became inspired. He'd been known to be quite creative with his culinary prowess.

"It's okay," she repeated, as he leaned against the counter near the toaster. She jostled the yolks and whites with a spatula, added a bit of salt, and then asked, "You okay?"

"Yeah, just thinking about… time," he answered.

"Oh. Well, that makes a change."

"The Man in Black," he said.

The two of them had retired to Martha's flat last night to wind down from an adventure in the States, wherein they had saved two people from a violent death by home-made explosives. In doing so, they had redirected a chain of events that would have meant that those deaths, over time, would save the human race. In the mix, there was a man who wore all black, a mysterious figure whom they had encountered, who had tried to derail the entire event, meaning Armageddon for the Earth. And it all hinged on a "fixed point" in time, an event that cannot be avoided without disastrous consequences.

An event that cannot be avoided. Or changed. That is, unless a Time Lord got involved.

"Ah. New revelation?" asked Martha.

"Nothing drastically new," he shrugged. "Just… wondering how he knew what to do. Who to talk to. What does he know about time, fixed points, existence as we know it?"

"Well, we were wondering all of that before."

"Yeah, but I guess I didn't fully think it through – was too exhausted or something. But just now… I mean, Martha, only Time Lords know about fixed points. Only _one of us_ could see how that explosion, those two deaths, would lead to…" he sighed.

"But you said you got a human vibe off him when you confronted him."

"I did," he told her. "But there are so many reasons why his _human vibe_ could be false. Or why my ability to assess a _human vibe_ might be irrelevant."

"Okay, well… maybe he's a Rehengese, or was hired by them. You said they had some wicked technology…"

"But not feelers across time," he corrected.

She sighed. She picked up the pan of scrambled eggs and distributed its contents upon two nearby plates, then reminded the Doctor that the toast had popped up behind him. Silently, he buttered the toast then placed one on each plate. She poured them each a cup of coffee and they sat down to have breakfast.

"Well," she said, after taking her first bite. "Are we still agreed that we need to find him?"

"Yes, definitely," the Doctor said, nodding with a mouthful of toast.

"If nothing else, just to make sure that whoever hired him didn't kill him and his entire family, if they found out that the mission got thwarted."

"But also because… fixed point, Martha. I can't just let that pass." When he said that last bit, he seemed far away, as though searching for a specific star in the sky.

"So, if the Rehengese don't have time-seeing or time-travel or time-anything, and we're assuming (loosely) that he's human, then could just go back to that neighbourhood, on that day, and follow him.

The Doctor gave a small groan. "Go back there… to that day? Intercept him as he leaves the scene?"

"I know what you're going to say. Too dangerous. Timelines. Paradox. Horrible things."

"In a nutshell," he said with a smirk.

"Well, then… it's on you, I guess. Because other than just going to where we saw him last, I've got nothing."

"I just don't like going back so close to the scene of a fixed point, especially since we might also run the risk of crossing our own timelines."

"Again, I've got nothing," she said, biting into her toast.

He sat back, took a long sip of his coffee that made him grimace, then he folded his arms, and seemed to contemplate for a few minutes.

"Okay," he said suddenly. "Let's start with the TARDIS. Sentient software. Maybe she and I can do a bit of an interface and run a mug-shot check on him or something. I reckon it's pretty likely he's been photographed somewhere, some way, in an official capacity. A mug shot, driving licence…"

"Excellent," Martha chirped. "A place to begin. Hallelujah. Now eat your eggs. - I worked hard on them."

* * *

Though, as Martha had feared, the TARDIS was able to offer no insight into _who_ the Man In Black might be.

"So, back to square-one," the Doctor said quietly, setting down the interface headband on the console. "I'm setting a course for the day we last saw him in 1966, in that neighbourhood..."

He stood at the controls with his hands on them, ready to throw the TARDIS into gear, but something was stopping him.

"You're feeling nauseated, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"Your Time Lord gut doesn't want you to risk crossing your own timeline, does it?"

"No. Nor does it want _you_ to risk it."

She came up beside him, placed both hands on his arm and led him back to the lone seat in the console room.

"Then let's wait," she counselled. "Let's just, you know, do what we usually do. Let's get on with our lives, and see if an opportunity arises. You might have an epiphany in the coming months – who knows?"

He nodded subtly. "Okay."

She draped her arms over his shoulders, and rested her head against his. "Sorry – didn't mean to push you. Just work at your own pace, and I'll back you up."

He smiled softly and kissed the bit of bare arm that was currently resting front of his mouth. "Thank you." After a few beats, he asked, "So, what do you want to do next?"

She smiled. "Let's just set the coordinates to _random_ and see what happens."

"Oh-ho! It's been a good long while since we've done that!" he enthused, like a child. Then he stood up and made his way to the controls, made a few adjustments and threw the TARDIS into gear. They held on, as the vessel jostled, and then stopped after about twenty seconds.

"Where are we?" she asked.

He pulled the screen toward himself and checked the readings. "Interesting. We're in Las Vegas."

"Like, on Earth?"

"Yep."

"Anything and everything all across history and the universe, and we set this thing to _random_ and it brings us back to Earth?"

"Yep."

"Hunh. Go figure."

"Want to go out and take a look anyway?"

"Sure. Never been to Las Vegas. It's not as exotic as some of the places we've been, but… it's all about the journey, isn't it? And being with you." She popped up on her tiptoes and extended her neck for a kiss. He obliged happily, then she asked, " _When_ are we?"

He looked at the screen, reading the swirls of circular lettering that constituted the Doctor's native language. "Oh, no," he said. "Oh, no, no, no, no, no. This won't do at all."

"What? What's wrong?" she asked, worriedly.

"It's the summer of 2016. 8th of August."

"Seriously? Eight years? She didn't even bring us into the far-flung future?" She laughed a bit, then stroked the console. She spoke then to the TARDIS itself. "I've seen you get a lot more creative, love. Bit off your game today?"

The Doctor sighed heavily. "Yeah, that's not why I said it won't do," the Doctor told her. "2016 on Earth is just… ugh."

"Ugh?"

"Yeah. It's _bleah."_

" _Bleah?"_

Before the Doctor could explain, a phone seemed to ring from somewhere on the console. He looked at Martha with surprise, shrugged, then flipped a switch.

Before he could say _hello_ , a strange sound came over the speakers, like electronic blips interspersed with a flute playing a two-note melody. And a bit of the whine from a fax machine thrown in every few seconds.

Martha wrinkled her nose. "What is that?"

"It's an untranslated communiqué," he said. "Buried somewhere in there is probably a voice message of some sort, but the TARDIS can't quite decipher it yet. Though… she's trying." He tipped his ear toward the console and seemed to be listening.

From Martha's point of view, nothing was changing. The Doctor, however, was nodding his head, perhaps starting to understand. It was sort of like when he could hear the nuanced differences in the whine of the sonic screwdriver, and she most definitely could not.

After about a minute, the sound stopped, and they heard the standard _click,_ signalling that the call had been cut off.

"Did you get anything?" she asked.

"Just the point of origin," he said. "Local."

"So… Las Vegas?"

"So it would seem. Las Vegas, August, 2016."

"Oh. So it found us because we're here."

"Or we're here because it found us. The TARDIS' _random_ function could have been influenced by a particular frequency coming at us… depending on the type of message, the coding used…"

"So what was it, a distress call?"

"From Las Vegas?" he asked, at first a bit incredulous of the question. Then, "Well, I suppose it's possible. They do have Area 51 nearby-ish."

"That's real?"

"Yep. Unfortunately."

"So, do you have a way of contacting Area 51?"

"Of course, but if it's them, it's probably a trap," he said.

"A trap?"

"They've been trying to get me out there since the fifties," he said. "But I know what would happen the minute I crossed the threshold."

"You'd be a prisoner."

"If I'm lucky!"

He spent a few minutes playing back the sound as it had come through, and trying to get the TARDIS to trace the source a bit more specifically. Martha waited.

He mused, "No, it's definitely coming from inside Las Vegas proper, not from the desert."

"Could it be a wrong number?"

"Not bloody likely," he said. "A phone call is one thing, Martha, but a signal that can breach the TARDIS' equipment? Even if it's encrypted? That's got to be…" He let out a puff of air signalling that he wasn't sure what to say next.

"So, it's weird?"

"It's weird."


	2. Chapter 2

TWO

"Could you be a little more discreet with that thing?" Martha asked, as they walked down the Las Vegas strip. The Doctor had the sonic screwdriver held aloft, buzzing, lit up. He was attempting to follow the source of the call that had found its way into the TARDIS console's communications system.

"Relax, it's Vegas," he said. "Look around. Half the people here are doing something twice as weird, and the other half are drunk."

Martha spied a man and woman, each wearing a pink feathered headdress and rainbow sunglasses, sharing a drink out of a three-foot-long cup, through super-long straws curly-queue. They were giggling and talking, but she couldn't actually tell whether they were speaking English, or something else. And she had an idea that it was not because the TARDIS' translation circuits were down.

"Okay, fair point," she conceded.

They crossed a street, and continued down the strip. Her eyes were caught by a spray of water, which was a welcome sight in the sweltering heat. The TARDIS' instruments had indicated that it was over 40 degrees, which, as far as Martha was concerned, might as well be a million.

The water jet turned out to be a choreographed fountain show in front of the Bellagio Casino and Hotel. The medium-sized lake/pond outside was low today, but it didn't stop the three spouts from making the water dance, and lightly spray all passers-by. A small bottleneck formed on the sidewalk as tourists took advantage of the spectacle, and its cooling effect.

The Doctor and Martha politely made their way through the transfixed crowd and he heard the screwdriver's pulse change pitch.

"It's coming from inside the Bellagio," he said, quizzically. "What's that about?"

Martha shrugged, then followed him as he navigated yet another sidewalk where people were gathering near a railing to see the fountain show.

Martha looked at the marquee high above them, advertising this establishment. "This is where they have that Cirque du Soleil water show! I've heard it's brilliant!"

They followed a walkway into the Bellagio, and found themselves in the gigantic, luxurious, circular lobby. The place definitely had an air of elegance about it, but also an indescribable sort of artificiality, like it was still Las Vegas, still the camp, tinny, flashy resort town it had always been.

Still, it was thrilling. She and the Doctor looked about, and took in the brilliantly-coloured glass sculpture hanging from the ceiling, the floors so shiny one could eat off them, and of course, the miles and miles _and miles_ of casino floor, bars and general spectacle, branching off from where they stood.

He took her hand and began to wander straight ahead. The loud _ping_ and _ka-ching_ of slot machines sounded all around them as people fed coin after coin out of a bucket and into the belly of Las Vegas. About fifty yards ahead of them, there was that rare bit of natural light seeping into the casino.

"What is that?" Martha wondered, realising, though she had never been to Vegas, that natural light was a bit incongruous in a large, world-class hotel-casino. Ordinarily, the powers-that-be, she knew, would not want casino patrons to know what time of day it was, so that they would keep on gambling.

"Dunno," said the Doctor, and they headed forward to find out.

They crossed some sort of threshold, and found an atrium, wherein grew exotic plants and flowers. As they looked on, they could see that there was a walkway that led into another room like this one, and then another, all displaying a myriad of colourful botanica.

"Oh yeah," the Doctor practically whined as he took in the surroundings. "I remember seeing this bit from the outside… the glass ceiling panels. It's nice."

"It's beautiful!" Martha exclaimed. "I'd no idea there was a full-blown botanical garden inside a Las Vegas casino! Who would think, eh?"

"Who, indeed," he said, absently. He stood still for a moment, and frowned, first at the florae, then at the bird sanctuary in the middle of the room.

"Doctor, what's wrong?"

When twenty seconds went by and he hadn't answered her, she squeezed his hand, and said, "Oi! What's with the frown?"

"Maybe nothing," he muttered, staring back through to the casino, the way they had come. Once again, he let his eyes dart about the botanical garden, then at the blue sky and sun shining through the glass atrium ceiling, then again at the vast, noisy casino.

"Maybe nothing?" she asked, with a bit of a laugh. "Really? I know you better than that by now!"

"Come on," he whispered, taking her hand again.

They made their way through the botanical garden, then into the dark, Vegas-style lighting again, into another quarter-mile of slots, Blackjack tables, special Texas Hold 'Em Rooms, Craps tables, bars and coffee stands. Cocktail waitresses in short skirts bustled about (as did handsome waiters with bow-ties), people drank, lost money, and laughed.

Eventually, the casino segued into a shopping area. There were clothing stores, jewelry stores, restaurants, pastry shops – anything one could imagine finding in a shopping mall, one would find there. The shops were arranged in a big ring, and they explored level after level… occasionally stopping to browse a bit. Always at Martha's request, of course.

All the while, the Doctor looked at the surroundings with that same scowl, with that same note of inquiry with which he had regarded the atrium.

"Doctor, what is the problem?" Martha asked again, at last, once they had seen the last of the shops, and rode in the lift back up to the casino.

"I'll tell you in while," he said. "I need more information."

"Information about what?"

"I'm not sure yet, I…" he stopped. "Didn't you say there was a show here? A Cirque du Soleil act?"

"Yeah, it's called _O."_

"Right," he said. "It's a water show. A play on words. _Eau_ is French for _water_ , so _O,_ the letter… because it's cute? Because Americans can't speak French?"

"A bit of all of the above, I'd imagine. I've always wanted to see it. It's meant the be spectacular."

"Well," the Doctor mumbled. "Let's do it."

"Really? I thought there was reconnaissance to be done," Martha said with a smirk.

"There is, but…"

"You want to see it as part of reconnaissance, don't you?"

He sighed. "Yeah. But doesn't it count for anything that I want to get dressed up and take you on a date? Even if it's for the sake of my Time Lord gut?"

Now it was her turn to frown. "Your gut's telling you something? What? Have we travelled through a wormhole since we've been inside the Bellagio?"

"No, but hold that thought," he said.

* * *

It was already too late to see the matinée, but they were able to secure two (expensive, scalped) tickets to the evening performance of _O_. Martha knew that the dress code wasn't quite so posh, but she decided to wear the black and dark-blue lace dress she had worn a few months before, on her first date with the Doctor. She announced her intention to do so, to which the Doctor had replied, good-naturedly, "Oh, blimey, I suppose that means I'll have to up my game as well."

While she was putting on her makeup, she heard the TARDIS' gears go, which meant the vessel was moving around her. Then the Doctor called out, "I'll meet you outside, whenever you're ready."

And so, when Martha stepped out of the TARDIS, to her surprise, she was in a hotel room, mostly black and white, with splashes of red, and the Doctor was standing at the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing out. He was dressed in a shiny grey Armani suit, the one he had worn on the same night when she'd worn this dress. The whole scene that evening had been all about opulence and thick, heady seduction. A powerful Proustian sense-memory struck her, and she found herself fanning off a wave of heat.

He turned to face her, very cool, well-coiffed, hands-in-pockets, crisp suit, burning white shirt, dress shoes with a high shine…

"Good evening, Dr. Jones."

She smiled widely, and tore her eyes away from him long enough to scan the room. "Are we in the Bellagio?"

"No, Paris," he said. "Across the street from the Bellagio."

"Okay," she lilted, coming toward him. He pulled her in for a kiss, and together, they gazed down at Las Vegas in twilight. "Why here? Why not there?" She gestured to the grand hotel across the street.

"I wanted a good view of the exterior," he said. "This is the best there is."

"Not gonna argue with that," she commented, as the fountain display started up. The hotel itself was lit expertly, and gave an air of romance to the glitz.

After a few beats, he asked her, "Fancy going over there a bit early? Casing the joint, as they say?"

"More casing?"

"Well… yeah."

"Lead on," she said.

He took her arm, grabbed the room key, and they left through the Paris hotel corridor.

* * *

They walked almost all the way around the hotel, while the Doctor looked up at it, scowling. He was, once again, on a mission, it seemed. Martha, at this stage, did not bother to ask what was up. She figured he'd share when the time came. When he said he needed more information, she believed him. She had an idea that after they saw _O,_ things would come more to light – she didn't know why she thought so, she just had a feeling.

So, what was it about the Bellagio that bothered the Doctor so much? She knew him well, and had seen him bristle numerous times when his Time Lord senses were tingling. How could it be that seeing a performance of a water show would get him over this particular hump? Maybe it wouldn't… but the Doctor must think it would as well, otherwise, why bother?

He led them through a door marked "private," which, of course, he opened using the sonic screwdriver, bypassing the keypad. They found themselves in something of a labyrinth of whitewashed cinder-block hallways. The smell of chlorine was overpowering.

"We're backstage, aren't we?" she asked.

"Yep," he said.

At several points in their journey, they were met by people with headsets, or people in costume, who stopped to ask variations on "May we help you?" read: "What are you doing here?"

The Doctor's out-of-the-ordinary suit and grown-up shoes served him well tonight, as he adopted the guise of a Las Vegas insider, and showed the psychic paper, proving that he and Martha were VIPs, entitled to tour as they liked.

After a quick search, they found a spiral staircase, and began to descend. They went down, Martha estimated, about one whole storey, and the Doctor looked back up the staircase as though it were some unknowable mystery. At the foot of the stairs, they went through another door, and were met with another whitewashed wall, though they realised that they were standing beside the pool. Another staircase led up the side of the tank, and the Doctor took the steps two at a time. Martha followed, in her high heels.

They could see that above, there was a mechanical mechanism that slid back and forth over the top of the pool. They stood at the top of the tank and looked down, once again fending off officials who wondered who the hell they were.

"Are those SCUBA sets?" she asked, referring to the blobs of black tanks and wires attached to the pool's walls.

"They are," he said. "I'm counting two dozen."

He squinted and gazed down into the pool.

Again, she didn't bother to ask.

"I read somewhere that when the pool needs maintenance, they drain it into the lake out front," he said. "I wonder where and how they do that."

"Well, hey, let's find out."

"Mm," he grunted, practically sprinting down the metal staircase.

"Oh, don't mind me, I'll catch up with you," she chirped, with more than a hint of sarcasm.

"Sorry," he said, watching her high heels come into contact with the metal. "Do you want help?

"No, just… don't go so fast."

He waited, then took her hand again, once she reached the bottom.

They sonicked open another door, then went down another staircase, and found the bottom of the tank. There was clearly a drainage system to rid the giant pool of its millions of gallons of water if and when the need arose, and Martha expected the Doctor to inspect it. But he didn't.

Instead, he hopped back up the stairs, and looked through the door. It was the only vantage point one could take, while seeing both the bottom and the lip of the pool.

"Blimey," he said.

"Yeah," she commented. "Big pool."

"One would think," he muttered.

* * *

 **Okay, here we go with the mystery! :-) Don't forget to leave a review, please! They are my biggest motivator!**


	3. Chapter 3

**To my reader who claims not to like "the circus:" Fear not! Cirque du Soleil is not "the circus" as you know it! Check out "Worlds Away" sometimes - you'll get a sampling!**

 **And even within Cirque du Soleil, "O" is singular. It's amazing! :-) Either way, though, we're not going to spend a lot of time there.**

 **On with the show!**

* * *

THREE

The show was spectacular. Acrobats, synchronised swimmers, clowns, musicians, dancers… performers from all over the world.

The Doctor and Martha sat up in the balcony seats and watched Cirque du Soleil's world-famous _O_ unfold. Better tickets had been available from the scalper they'd spoken to, but the Doctor and his Time Lord gut had insisted upon seeing it from above.

"What is under your skin, Doctor?" she asked, as they took their seats, and he was scowling. Still.

"I bet you'll see it yourself," he said. "Just watch."

The stage itself moved back and forth, up and down, exposing more or less of the pool, as the stunt or skit required. Divers leapt from the stage, from apparatuses on the stage, from a rope hanging from the rafters. Increasingly high, daring stunts began to dominate the show…

And when one swan-like diver flawlessly, almost without a splash, entered the pool, first by the tips of her fingers, then the top of her head, and so on, at a powerful speed after a triple somersault, Martha commented, "Wow, it just doesn't seem like the pool would have been deep enough for that."

She looked at the Doctor, and he was looking back at her with one eyebrow raised.

Toward the end of the spectacle, the performers asked for a "volunteer from the audience." They chose a man from approximately the tenth row, and brought him up onstage. He was wearing a white shirt, trousers, and a tie, and he carried himself no differently than anyone else they'd seen ambling about in Vegas. He spoke like someone just there to have fun, and seemed totally game for whatever they wanted from him.

They had him climb a rope ladder that, just then, got released from the rafters. At this point, anyone paying attention could see that the "volunteer" was a plant. What they were asking was far too dangerous for anyone not trained to do stunt work. Eventually, the man disappeared into the rafters, and at an appointed moment, he "fell" from the rafters into a perfect dive, and entered the water at quite a high speed.

"Oh my God!" Martha exclaimed before she could stop herself. She looked around her, embarrassed that people had been jostled out of _O'_ s magic, and were now glaring at her. She covered her mouth with her hand, and waved apologetically at them.

"Right?" the Doctor asked.

"That tank _cannot_ be deep enough for a plummet like that!" she answered white the music drowned out her voice. "Not unless him cracking his skull is part of the act! There is no way! Is there?"

"Nope. I am, as you know, quite good at spatial relationships. I'm very, _very_ good, in fact, and so is my gut. And _there is no way._ "

"Did you know that fall from the rafters was going to happen?"

"Not specifically, but I reckoned if we watched the show long enough, something would…"

"Shhh!" someone ordered from behind them.

"Sorry," they both muttered, before clamming up and watching the rest of the performance.

* * *

When Martha tried to discuss with him what she had seen, what she suspected, as they were exiting the theatre with the crowd, the Doctor shushed her gently. "Eyes and ears, Martha," he said.

"Seriously?" she asked. "What, you think there are moles in the crowd?"

He didn't answer, except to say, "TARDIS," then he merely wore the scowl he'd been sporting more or less since they arrived in Las Vegas. He took her hand, and led her out of the Bellagio, into the hot, dry Vegas night air, across the street into the Paris. Neither of them said a word, rather, they waited until they could be ensconced within the safety of the Doctor's trusted vessel.

But when they walked into their hotel room, the TARDIS, parked to the right, was lit up like The Strip at night, and lights inside were flashing. There was a blaring ringing coming also from somewhere within.

"Whoa, what's that?" Martha asked, tossing her shawl and purse onto the bed.

"Damn it," the Doctor spat, opening the wooden doors and bursting through.

He stalked up the ramp, flipped a switch and said, "Hello?" rather loudly, seemingly to no-one.

To Martha's surprise, the lights in the console room stopped flashing, and a voice came through the speakers.

"Hello?" the voice said. It was a man's voice, crisp, strong.

"Who's that?" the Doctor asked, his own voice crisp and strong with irritation.

"Oh, um… it's Joe Mullen," said the voice. He was an American, and Martha assumed he must be connected with whatever call had possibly brought them here to Las Vegas – perhaps a distress call. And judging from the looks and sound of the communication he'd initiated this time, it was almost certainly a distress call.

"Who?"

There was a pause. "Joseph Mullen," said the man. "Were you not given my name? Isn't this Mr. Varpet?"

"Wait, are you Joseph Mullen, CEO of MGM?"

"Yes, that's who I am," said Mullen. "Aren't you…"

"How the hell did you get this number?"

"It was given to me for emergencies," Mullen said.

"What sort of emergency?" the Doctor asked, now looking askance, for some reason, at Martha.

"Erm," said Mullen. He chuckled a bit. "I'm really not sure. I was supposed to call this number if _the worst_ happened. There's this device in my office, this green glowing thing."

"Yeah?"

"That's not ringing a bell?"

"No, not in the least," said the Doctor. "But listen, I'll come to you. Where is your office? In the Bellagio?"

"Yeah," said Mullen. "I'm on the third floor." And then he gave the Doctor directions from the front lobby.

"My associate and I will see you in five minutes," the Doctor said. And he disconnected the call.

"We will?" asked Martha.

"If he's got a _phone number_ that can ring on the TARDIS' console, that's big, Martha. Very, very big. It's a Auguring Code, and not just anyone knocking about your average office in Las Vegas is going to have it. Not even the CEO of MGM. Unless something very not-normal is occurring."

"An Auguring Code? What does that mean?"

"It's a code that one can punch into a standard Earth-based telephone, that can, well, sort of _burrow_ its way into wherever it's trying to reach. Like, if that thing is extremely far away. Across galaxies, even. Maybe even…" he trailed off. "Anyway, it's a combination of numbers and a dialling rhythm that causes the signal to get stronger if you try it more than once in a short period of time. The first time he called, you'll recall, the communication was muddled – the TARDIS couldn't fully decipher it. The second time, he got through. He might've even dialled a third time, to make the lights go all wonky and ring the comm device so loudly we could hear it outside."

"Oh," she said. "Is this guy an alien?"

"No," the Doctor said. "He's human. It's Joseph Mullen… like I said, CEO of MGM. MGM Resorts International owns the Bellagio, MGM Grand, Excalibur and half a dozen other casino hotels on the strip. Not to mention a number of international holdings."

"You've heard of him before?"

"Well, yeah," he said, taking her hand again and moving toward the TARDIS' door.

They walked out of the TARDIS into their hotel room, and then out into the hall once again. Martha had grabbed her shawl and purse on the way out, and they secured their door. Once again, they made their way out to the strip, crossed the street, then re-entered the Bellagio. They took a side stairway to the third floor and found a complex of offices, lined entirely with glass, looking out over night-time on the Las Vegas strip. The centre office was apparently reserved for Joseph Mullen, and the door was slightly ajar. No-one else seemed to be working tonight – just him.

The Doctor approached the office and rapped on the door. "Knock knock," he said.

"Hi," said Mullen, from behind his desk. He crossed to the door and ushered them in. He shook each of their hands in turn. "I'm Joe Mullen."

"John Smith," the Doctor said, with his handshake.

"Martha Jones," Martha said, with hers.

"Pleased to meet you," said Mullen.

They stepped further into his office. It, too, was lined with windows just like the space outside the doors. On one end was a wall of chrome bookshelves, bearing literary classics, a few trinkets, and a stereo system. There was a semi-circular white sofa and coffee table nearby. On the other end of the room, there was another, wider, wall of chrome bookshelves and a shiny black lacquer desk. The place looked lived-in and worked-in – the desk was strewn with papers, and the shelves were laden with open binders, books marked upside-down, coffee cups and Post-its hanging from the edges.

In the middle of the room, against one of the window walls, there was a chrome credenza. Like most credenzas, it had a row of shelves underneath, with doors that slid back and forth to hide whatever was stored within. The door was open, and the Doctor's eye was immediately drawn to the device inside. To It was about the size of a football, and to Martha , it looked like hybrid egg and seashell. It was glowing a brilliant golden colour.

The Doctor knelt before it and examined it without touching.

"Now _that_ is fascinating," he said.

"I'll say," said Mullen. He watched the Doctor and the device intently.

Martha took the opportunity to look the man over. He was wearing a suit a bit like the Doctor's current ensemble – an expensive, shiny, grey pin-striped number, except he didn't wear it half as well. He was not a bad-looking man, by any means – he simply looked frazzled and overworked. His hair was mostly white and grey, his suit jacket was hanging open, his shirttail was out and his tie was loosened and crooked. He was affable enough, but it was currently after ten o'clock at night, and he was still at work.

After a pause, Martha, building upon the gentlemen's comments, said, "Okay, we agree it's fascinating. Now what the hell is it?"

"I was hoping you could tell me," said Mullen. "You folks _do_ work with Mr. Varpet, don't you?"

"Yes, of course," said the Doctor, standing up and facing Mullen. "Sorry we didn't say so directly before – can't be too careful, you know."

"I guess – I don't know anything about Mr. Varpet. It's just a name to me. Does he own, like, a technology company or something?"

"Or something," the Doctor vamped. He changed the subject by gesturing to the device in the credenza. "So… you don't know what this thing is?"

"No idea."

"And I thought you said it glowed green," Martha said, frowning at the thing in the credenza.

"It used to," said the CEO. "Now it's yellow. That's why I called."

"That's good. Always call when it turns yellow," said the Doctor. Then he smiled an affected a confused, self-deprecating air. "Sorry, but Mr. Varpet was a little vague on the details… how did you come by it exactly?"

"Erm, well," Mullen said, clearing his throat. "Are you familiar with the name Curtis Katossian?"

"The founder of MGM Resorts? Yes."

"Well, when he retired three years ago, and I took over as CEO, I sort of inherited it from him."

"Mm-hm," the Doctor muttered. "And what did he tell you it does?"

"He said it was a secret he would take to his grave – and he did. He passed away last year. All he would tell me is that it's the key to Las Vegas as we know it, the city's present and future depends upon it, and that there would be some kind of catastrophe if it ever failed. Then he gave me a protocol, just in case _the worst_ happened, which is to say, the light turns yellow."

"Well," the Doctor corrected. "The light turning yellow isn't _the worst,_ but it certainly is a portent of the worst."

Mullen chuckled. "I have no clue what that means."

"So, the protocol was to dial an Auguring Code."

"A what?"

"Long sequence of numbers, in a particular rhythm," the Doctor replied.

Mullen crossed the space to his desk, and extracted a piece of paper from near the top of one of the piles. "Here it is. I don't know what you just called it, but…"

Martha looked over the Doctor's shoulder at the sequence. "Blimey," she muttered. "This is the number he gave you to dial?"

"Yes," answered Mullen.

"There must be…"

"…over seven-hundred digits," the Doctor interrupted.

"What do the dots and dashes mean?" asked Martha, pointing to markings underneath each numeral.

Mullen answered her. "They are symbols that tell me how long to hold each number when I dial. Dots are short, dashes are longer."

"Mr. Varpet wrote it out for you, rather like Morse Code," the Doctor commented.

"Exactly."

"And how many times did you dial before you got an answer?"

"Three," Mullen said. "And it takes for-goddamn-ever."

"May I take this?" asked the Doctor.

Mullen gave him a friendly grimace. "I think I'd better keep it."

"Hang on," Martha said. She extracted the iPhone the Doctor had recently given her from her purse and took a photo of the paper while he held it steady. With that, the Doctor returned the page to Mullen, who took it reverently back to his desk.

"Well, Mr. Mullen," said the Doctor, turning to stare and frown at the gold glowing device in the credenza. "I certainly can see why you called me. I don't suppose you'd let me take the device with me."

"Sorry," said the CEO. "Katossian was very clear that the thing never leave this office."

"Of course he was," the Doctor sighed. "All right, then, I'll try to get working on the issue without having it in my possession."

"You can do that?" asked Mullen.

"Perhaps," said the Doctor. "I'm going to need to pop back to my office to… erm, make some calls. We'll be in touch tomorrow, Mr. Mullen."

"We will?" asked Martha.

"Of course."

"All right," said the grey-haired man. "Please don't lag on this. Katossian would turn over in his grave if he thought this matter was going unchecked."

"It will _not_ go unchecked, Mr. Mullen, you can rest assured," the Doctor said earnestly. Martha read danger and urgency in his eyes when he said this.


	4. Chapter 4

**Longer delay between postings than I would have liked! I was out of town for three days with no room in my schedule for writing! My life is so hard. Sigh. In the old days, I could update my stories every day... but alas, no longer!**

 **So you're about to find out what the egg/seashell thing does, but... oh, but. So many questions!**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

FOUR

Lights danced everywhere – through the windows, across the walls, over their skin and in their eyes. They stood at the window of their hotel room of the Paris, Las Vegas casino and stared at the Bellagio across the street. Martha leaned against the Doctor, knowing he was probably scowling behind her, but uncaring, because at least his arms were around her waist, and they were here together.

"So," he said, taking a deep breath and sighing heavily. She felt him tense and relax, then kiss the top of her head. "You saw something bizarre in the _O_ show."

"Yeah," she said. "Especially when the so-called _volunteer_ dived from the rafters."

"What's your hypothesis, Dr. Jones?"

"My guess, you mean? My guess is that he's not human."

"Ah."

"I mean, if you say Joe Mullen is human, so be it. But the diver… I'm thinking, not so much. That pool was what? Twelve feet deep? And that was a hundred-foot drop at least. An adult male human would have hit the bottom of the pool and sustained a head injury at the very least."

"That is true," he conceded.

"So, I think that he, and maybe some of the other performers, the divers, are alien."

"A very good hypothesis," he said.

"A guess," she corrected.

"But it's not quite right."

"It told you. A guess," she affirmed, pulling away. She turned toward him and adopted her usual, business-like manner of investigation. He had to smile at this, given the formal cocktail dress and stilettos she was wearing. The juxtaposition delighted him.

"Don't guess. Go further. How else might someone survive a dive like that, into a pool that seems too small?"

As a hint, he threw his eyes toward the TARDIS, parked in the corner of the room. But Martha missed it.

She was busy contemplating, and had turned again toward the window. "How else, how else?" she asked herself. After a few beats, she wrinkled her nose at the view outside and said, "That's funny."

"What's funny?"

She pointed across the street and said, "The Bellagio. You can only see one domed atrium ceiling from here. I could have sworn there were three rooms right in a row, letting in natural light."

"Mm-hm," he said, still smiling. "Getting warmer."

"Well…" she turned to him and became irritated at the look on his face. "Stop that! What am I, _your pupil?_ You're enjoying this way too much, and… oh my God!" Suddenly her eyes and mouth flew open and she looked at him with total shock.

"What?"

"The TARDIS has an observatory with a glass ceiling that you can't see from the outside!"

"Yes, it does."

"Oh my God!"

"I know, right? It's genius!"

"Genius?" she shouted.

"Yeah!"

"It's dangerous! It's insane!"

"Well, yeah, that too," he corrected himself, feeling chastised.

She paced to the TARDIS and then came back. "Doctor, what is that egg-seashell looking thing in Joe Mullen's office?"

"It's a Dimensional Control," he said. "Somehow, Curtis Katossian, the founder of MGM Resorts International, got hold of Dimensional Transcendentalism. He was so sworn to secrecy that he couldn't even tell Mullen, his heir apparent, what it does. Just that it's… what was it he said?"

"It's the key to Las Vegas as we know it."

"Yeah, and ain't it the truth? Haven't been here since the 1970's. Things have changed. I mean, it was never exactly a cow-town, but it used to be much more… quaint. Normal. Containable."

"Dimensional Transcendentalism," she repeated absently. Then, "That's what the TARDIS has, yeah?"

"Yep. Bigger on the inside."

"Does the TARDIS have an egg-seashell thingy somewhere inside?"

"Yes, in the Cloister Room. About a quarter-mile back from the console room."

"Blimey," she breathed. "That's mental!"

He took a deep breath, and spoke. "So, that Cirque du Soleil pool is only twelve feet deep on the outside. But when you dive in, I'd wager, it's more like twenty-five, maybe thirty feet. Or it might even change from one moment to the next, depending on who is doing the diving and what his or her needs are. A human would have a hard landing on the water, but wouldn't hit the bottom. For an experienced diver, it would be easy peasy. And a real treat, to get to do any kind of dive, and not to have to worry about the bottom of the pool."

"D'you think the divers know about the… dimensional anomaly?"

"How could they not?" the Doctor asked. "I would think that, at the very least, they've been paid off or threatened into not asking too many questions. Each one of them will have inspected the pool. There's no way they haven't noticed."

There was a long silence, while they both considered the implications of this news, from differing angles. Then, Martha stopped at the window and said, "And the Belllagio has literally _miles_ of casino and atrium and shopping… but look! I mean, it looks big, but not… I mean…"

"Yep," he agreed, staring out there himself. "Dimensionally Transcendental."

"How many casinos do you reckon are like that?"

He exhaled through pursed lips. "A bunch, I should think. At least those owned by MGM International, and maybe others. Which means that if the Dimensional Control fails, a whole lot of people are in danger."

"I wonder if the TARDIS sensed it," she speculated. "I mean, we were saying, maybe the distress call from Mullen was the reason why the TARDIS 'randomly' came here, but… it seems like this dimensional thing would be so much more of a beacon."

He pursed his lips and shrugged. "Well… maybe not… which means we might be looking for something more involved here, something more time-based." At this point, he began to walk toward the TARDIS, and he burst through the doors. Martha followed. "The TARDIS is trained – programmed, conditioned, designed, whatever – to home in on the Vortex. It's who she is. It's the reason she exists. Like me, it's in her guts. And I know it sounds weird, but Dimensional Transcendentalism is just a means to an end for her. She needs to have it in order to be inconspicuous wherever she goes. Otherwise, she'd simply be huge and unwieldy and not as useful."

"Okay, I see."

"There's really no reason for one dimensionally transcendental thing to be able to detect another. So, the Dimensional Control wouldn't just pop up on her radar. See?" he asked, throwing gears into place, doing a routine that felt incredibly familiar to Martha. But the TARDIS made a 'whoop' sound, and the Doctor said to the Time Rotor, "What? What are you doing?"

He squinted at the screen, and re-adopted the scowl.

"What's wrong?" Martha wondered.

"She recognises it," he said. "The Dimensional Control. She's giving coordinates for it, just a few hundred metres from here. Across the street in the Bellagio, in Mullen's office."

"So, were you wrong about there being no reason for the TARDIS to want to home in on it, or is there something else bizarre going on?"

"The second thing."

* * *

Without ceremony, without warning and almost totally without finesse, the Doctor, still dressed in the charcoal-grey Armani suit he'd donned for Cirque du Soleil, burst through the door of Joseph Mullen's office.

"I want to know everything," he said, with a sweeping loud voice, striding straight in. He stopped five feet short of Mullen's desk, and stood with his feet far apart and his arms crossed over his chest. He bore holes into the CEO's forehead with his eyes. "Because I know, Mullen, that there is something you're not telling me."

"Not telling you? About what?"

"Who is Mr. Varpet? _What_ is he? How is _he_ supposed to 'fix' whatever goes wrong with that doohickey in your cabinet? What did Katossian do or say to him? How much did Katossian pay for the Dimensional Control?"

Mullen's eyes were wide as saucers. He was sitting at his desk, phone to his ear. He turned his attention briefly to the phone call. "Honey, I'm going to have to let you go. I'll see you in the morning, okay?" He ended the connection and said to the Doctor, "Dimensional Control?"

"Yes, yes, Dimensional Control," said the Doctor, annoyed. "Don't play dumb! How did Katossian come by it?"

Still stunned, Mullen said, "I don't even know what _it_ is! All he told me was that it is the key to…"

"…Las Vegas as we know it," the Doctor interrupted. "I know. How convenient. Telling you just enough to make you mighty nervous about it, but not actually telling you what it does? Taking the secret to his bloody grave?"

Mullen got to his feet. "I know! It's really fucking annoying, is what it is! I've been sitting on this thing for three years, without knowing a goddamned thing about it!" he shouted. "Is it a computer thing? Is it chemical? Is it radioactive? I mean, why does it glow green without being plugged into anything? Am I going to lose my hair, or my mind, from sitting this close to it? Should I have some of my sperm frozen, just in case?"

Martha watched Mullen, and paid specific attention to his body language. She did the same with the Doctor. She watched the Time Lord's reaction to the man, and realised there was a huge disconnect here.

"Doctor…" she said, softly, forgetting that Mullen knew him as "Smith."

The Doctor didn't hear her. He shoved his hands in his pockets now, and began to pace. "I want to know, _why you_? How did _you_ become CEO of MGM? Why did Katossian choose you? How did he meet Varpet? Why did Varpet offer him the Dimensional Control? At what cost? What kind of soul-selling did Katossian do in order to get it? What kind are _you_ doing, Mister I-Don't-Know-A-Bloody-Thing? How did Varpet get that seven-hundred-digit phone number to pass along to Katossian? And I know I've already asked this, but while we're at it, I may as well ask again: _who the hell is Varpet?_ " He stopped pacing and stood still in the middle of Mullen's office. Deadly serious, he said, "And last but not least, I want to know why my TARDIS is homing in on that thing. There is no good nor logical reason for it, so answer me that, Mullen."

"Doctor…" Martha tried again.

"TARDIS?" said Mullen. "What in God's name is a TARDIS?"

"I think you know very well what a TARDIS is, Mr. Mullen."

"I don't think he does, Doctor," Martha said.

"What?" the Doctor spat at her, seeming just now to realise she was there, trying to communicate with him.

"Doctor, look at him," she said. "He doesn't know the first thing about any of this."

He frowned at her in disbelief. "Did it occur to you that _he might be lying?_ "

"No, never," she said calmly, sarcastically. "I've never met a human being in my whole life who lied to cover up something dodgy."

"Martha…"

"Doctor, I have training in psychiatry, and thanks to UNIT, in basic interrogation techniques. Assuming Mr. Mullen is human…"

"Excuse me?" Mullen said.

"…from what I've observed, he's telling the truth. He's clueless."

"Human?" asked Mullen, nervously raising his voice. "What the hell are you talking about? What else would I be?"

"Any number of things, okay?" Martha snapped at him. "Just give us a mo', would you? I'm trying to keep my friend here from using a sonic device to unravel MGM's master hard drive or something. Or your brain."

Mullen's jaw dropped, but he fell silent.

The Doctor frowned at her. "How did you know I was…"

"Because I know you, love," she said. "I know that nothing, including me, is as important to you as your TARDIS. If you think someone's been mucking about with her, then you _would_ , in fact, come a little unglued. Maybe rightfully so. But shouting at this man isn't helping."

"Martha," he said, walking toward her, his voice low and intense. "Somehow that egg-seashell thing and my TARDIS are connected. That should not be. I explained to you, there is no reason for one Dimensionally Transcendental thing to have contact with another, unless there has already been contact. So, who the hell has been in my TARDIS? In her database? In her heart? Who's been messing with the Vortex in that way? I have to know, and I don't have anywhere else to start!"

"Fine, I get it. But it's pretty clear to me that even if Mullen is lying, he's not going to say anything." She chuckled. "I mean, like I said, UNIT trained me in various interrogation techniques, including what they call _interrogation with incentives,_ so I could…"

"No, no, please," Mullen said, hands in defensive mode, taking a couple of steps backward.

"Don't worry," Martha said to him. "I'm just making a point. That's not how we roll."

She saw, out of the corner of her eye, that Mullen relaxed a bit. But not completely. The Doctor looked at him with mistrust, still scowling deeply, which clearly made him nervous.

"Which brings up a good point, Doctor," Martha continued. "Because the next step after cornering him in his office, shouting at him and insisting that he knows stuff, is interrogation."

The Doctor's face hardened. "Fine. Then, Dr. Jones, where do we go from here? Because I don't know what he's done to my TARDIS, and I've got nothing else."

"You're the cleverest man in the universe," she counselled. "You can work it out."

* * *

Mullen had been watching the two people who had burst (twice) into his office tonight with a mixture of fear, curiosity and disbelief. When Katossian had retired, Mullen had only _thought_ he had no understanding about the glowing green thing in his office. Now, if possible, he understood even less.

All he knew from Katossian was that the device was supposed to glow green, and if "the worst" happened, and it went to yellow, he was to call some bizarre phone number and attempt to contact someone called Mr. Varpet. If he failed to do so, Vegas "as we know it," whatever that meant, was at stake. Katossian had been hush-hush on every other detail. When he told these people that this was all he knew, he was telling the truth.

Earlier, a man named Mr. Smith and his associate, Miss Jones, had answered his call, claiming to work with Mr. Varpet. They seemed to be offering help. There was nothing particularly weird about this (accepting the weird circumstances), except that the woman was dressed a bit formally for a business call, and actually, so was the man.

An hour later, the man, whom the woman was now calling "Doctor" was asking who the hell Mr. Varpet was. The woman, also, apparently, a doctor, seemed to believe him about being in the dark over the glowing device, but the man did not. There seemed to be some vague threat about advanced interrogation techniques (read: torture), and there was something (or someone) called a TARDIS. The only thing that Mullen could glean about the TARDIS was that it was presumably more important to "the Doctor" (Dr. Smith?) than his companion "Dr. Jones." Which was a shame, because Dr. Jones seemed to think an awful lot of him, calling him _the cleverest man in the universe,_ and all. The TARDIS must be something (or someone) extraordinary, indeed.

"Okay, look," Mullen said, after Dr. Jones had challenged her partner to work it out, and he'd said nothing for about thirty seconds. "I'm not just saying this to get you both the hell out of my office – although I do want you both the hell out of my office. The only thing I can think of is, maybe talk to Katossian's daughters, or his ex-wife."

"Were they involved in the business?" Martha Jones asked.

"Not as such," he said. "But they inherited pieces of it, and of course, inherited tons of money when he died. It's not unreasonable to think that they might know something. A titbit of some sort that could help you? Maybe?"

"How do we know you won't leave town while we're talking to them?" asked the Doctor.

"Where would I go?" asked Mullen. "I have a meeting with the shareholders from Dubai in the morning! They're already set up in the Penthouse upstairs."

* * *

 **So, if you're reading this story, please review! Only fair. Also, I love reviews - needy that way. :-D**


	5. Chapter 5

**Bigger on the inside is the name of the game! Was it the Eleventh Doctor who suggested that all humans are? :-)**

 **Now, on with our show. If you'll remember, the CEO of MGM Int'l didn't know anything, but suggested that maybe the children of Curtis Katossian, the former CEO and founder, might...**

* * *

FIVE

Late the following afternoon, Martha Jones walked out of the TARDIS, and stepped onto Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu, California. She sighed looking at the building before her. Her family had a fair bit of money, but _this_ was obviously a whole different tier. She had never been in a residence like this, short of the tour she'd taken of Buckingham Palace, on a school trip when she was nine years old. Truth be told, she had trouble thinking of this as a _home_ , and wondered how anyone could feel cosy and/or protected on such a sprawling estate.

She chuckled and looked back at the TARDIS, realising the paradox in her thoughts. Cosy as it may look from the outside, it was much more sprawling on the inside than anyone in Malibu would be likely to believe. And that was why they were here, wasn't it?

"Dimensional Transcendentalism," she said to herself.

And yet she felt at-home inside the TARDIS, quite cosy and content, and safe. Part of that, she knew, was the company.

As she walked across the street, she took stock of her current lot in life. She had been on her Internal Medicines rotation when she'd met the Doctor and begun to travel through time and space. And fallen hopelessly in love. Once she'd decided to leave him, and what she believed at the time to be a futile relationship, he'd recommended her for a job with UNIT, and they'd fast-tracked her through to her degree. She had become Chief Medical Officer straight away.

But five months ago, her relationship with him had become decidedly less-futile. Less platonic. Less ambiguous. Very intense. Very sexual. Very satisfying - vindicating, even. She'd been sacked from UNIT because of a misstep involving the Doctor, and since then, they had remained mostly on Earth, for better or for worse. They had robbed a bank, travelled to Tahiti and the Swiss Alps, and had nearly destroyed the planet together. They had spent some time in Colorado, trying to save a postman and a 1960's housewife from a fiery murder/suicide…

…but it had been months since Dr. Jones had done anything remotely medical. Even in the time leading up to her metamorphosed relationship with the Doctor, she had mostly been engaged in fighting aliens (Sontarans, Daleks… Time Lords), rather than examining humans for alien influences (which had been the bulk of her job description when she'd been hired at UNIT).

And yet, cosy and content – it was what she felt. Like the TARDIS, like the Doctor and apparently, large chunks of Las Vegas, Martha Jones was bigger on the inside. She walked about under the mantle of Martha Jones, M.D., but what she did, loved, wanted, needed, thrived in and excelled at went far beyond simple anatomy and biology. She was a healer and a helper, and when she'd lived a strictly Earth-bound, completely human existence, she could think of no better way to do that than become a doctor. But _the Doctor_ , ironically, had shown her a better way. A bigger-on-the-inside way.

And so, here she was, getting ready to interview a very wealthy woman, concerning the business dealings of her deceased, even wealthier, father. Yes, it was in the interest of helping the man she loved continue to be the dashing, intergalactic trouble-shooter he had always been. But more importantly, it was in the interest of remaining the trouble-shooter that _she_ had always been. Because she hadn't yet specifically asked what would happen if the Dimensional Control were to fail, but she reckoned it wouldn't mean good things for anyone trapped inside the Bellagio, or any of the other at-risk casino-hotels.

As Joe Mullen told it, Curtis Katossian's daughters had had very little to do with the business, and so, Mullen had had very little reason to contact them, before or after their father's death. They lived in the world of enormous wealth that their father had carved for them, and chose not to deal with MGM International in any significant way. One daughter, ran a philanthropic foundation, tied to the Armenian Apostolic Church, and her husband owned three luxury country clubs and golf courses in the Los Angeles area. The other daughter worked for a real-estate development company, as a PR representative, and had never been married.

When he had phoned them yesterday, under the watchful stare of the Doctor, Mullen had fed Katossian's daughter Tamara the Time-Lord-manufactured lie that a U.N. subcommittee on technological ethics was looking into MGM Resorts International. He told her that the subcommittee needed their input (and their mother's, if they could manage it) on anything they knew about unusual, possibly groundbreaking technologies used in MGM's holdings, especially in Las Vegas. He said they seemed nervous, but he had reminded them that they had nothing to hide.

Martha made her way across a cobbled driveway and onto a paved walkway to the door. She rang, and heard what sounded like a church bell sounding somewhere in the house. She chuckled.

A middle-aged woman answered the door, wearing grey trousers and a blue striped top. But Martha somehow doubted that this was Katossian's daughter.

"Hello ma'am," said the woman with a pleasant smile. "Are you the representative from the U.N.?" She had the accent of a Spanish-speaker.

"Yes," Martha said, and she flashed the psychic paper. "Martha Jones."

"Come in, please," said the woman. "Follow me."

The woman led Martha through the house, including past an indoor pool in a room that looked like the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. The residence contained very little that Martha could hold onto or relate to. There was nothing reassuring to her about rooms that looked as though they hadn't been touched in decades, pieces of art that looked as though they belonged in museums, and marble floors worthy of the Old Bailey. At least the TARDIS, though cavernous, was a mess, as though someone actually cared about its pieces and contents.

Though, they eventually came to a surprisingly modestly-sized living area which included three floor-to-ceiling windows under archways with wrought-iron panes. Palm plants adorned the windows, as did rustic-looking, white Italian shears, pulled back so as not to obscure the ocean view. A baby grand piano sat on one end of the room, covered with framed photos. The furniture was a tasteful mixture of modern geometric and ornate European.

"Please have a seat, ma'am," said the woman. "I am Emiliana, the household manager. Would you like a drink? White wine? Soda? Mint and lime-infused water?"

"No, thanks," Martha responded.

"If you change your mind, you can push that button there, and it will ring me in my office," said Emiliana pleasantly. "Meanwhile, I'll let Mrs. DiLeone know you're here."

Martha sat on the sofa and enjoyed the view for a bit, and it was only a couple of minutes before she heard, "Ms. Jones?"

Martha turned her head and found an olive-skinned woman coming down a short stack of steps that seemed to lead into some sort of plush conference room adjacent. She was very thin, about Martha's height, had dark, curly, shoulder-length hair, peppered with purplish-red highlights, and had quite clearly had had at least a few Botox injections in her cheeks, if not also a face-lift. She wore a white pair of pressed trousers, a white sweater twin set, and gold, point-toed shoes.

"Yes," Martha said, standing, putting out her hand for a shake.

The woman shook her hand, and said, "I'm Tamara Katossian DiLeone. Welcome to our home."

"Thank you," Martha chirped, looking about. "It's lovely."

Mrs. DiLeone smiled. "We like it. Did Emiliana offer you a beverage?"

"She did. But I'm fine – I can't stay long anyway."

Mrs. DiLeone gestured for Martha to sit again, and when she did, the hostess sat across the coffee table from her.

"Joe Mullen had indicated that you'd wanted to talk to my sister as well, and possibly also our mother. Unfortunately, our mother is indisposed. But my sister is upstairs finishing up a phone call."

"All right."

Just then, another woman of approximately fifty appeared in the same doorway, and came down the steps. She seemed the opposite of Mrs. DiLeone – golden blonde hair with a soft curl hanging down her back, wearing a shocking pink blazer. She did not appear to Martha to have had any plastic surgery, but her makeup was caked-on.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," she said, clicking down the steps with her black patent-leather shoes. "Talking with contractors is _not_ my favourite part of my job."

"That's all right," Martha said, standing up and shaking the woman's hand. "Martha Jones."

"Lydia Katossian," she said, sitting beside her sister.

"Great, let's get started," Martha suggested, opening up the leather portfolio that she'd brought with her. She began with a few questions about how their father began with MGM Resorts International. He'd bought into the Metro Goldwyn-Mayer company in 1969, and had worked with the international interests for a while, before turning his eye to Las Vegas. In 1990, he'd built the Excalibur, the first new hotel-casino on the Strip in eleven years, with an entirely new vision for Las Vegas life.

"'It will change Vegas as we know it,' he said," Lydia reported. She laughed. "Which… we all sort of know what he means now, but at the time it was like _whatever dad!_ "

"Mm-hm," Martha said, grabbing onto Lydia's words. _This_ would be the line of inquiry that would tell Martha whether the daughters knew about Dimensional Transcendentalism. "And what _did_ he mean?" Martha asked her.

"Well, you know… just… Vegas as it is now."

"Meaning?"

"Just… flashy. Big. Larger-than-life."

"Wasn't Las Vegas flashy and larger-than-life before that?" Martha wondered.

"Sort of, but not… you know, like now."

Tamara chimed in. "Theme-based. Plush. Labyrinthine."

"Okay, labyrinthine," Martha said. "Let's talk about that."

"What about it?" asked Tamara.

"How did, say, the Excalibur get so labyrinthine?"

"What do you mean, _how_?" asked Lydia. "You mean, what contractor did they use?"

Martha shrugged. "Maybe."

"I can find out for you," Lydia said. "It's probably someone I work with."

"Wait a moment," said Tamara. "I thought this inquiry was about technology ethics."

"It is," said Martha. "Is there anything unusual about the contractors he used?"

"We don't know, at the moment, what contractors he used," Lydia said. "Or, do you mean, the people who installed the computer system? Because that's really a different question."

"Why is the U.N. interested in this?" Tamara wondered.

Martha heard, but chose to ignore, the question. "When you, Mrs. DiLeone, described the quality of _Vegas as we know it_ as labyrinthine, I'm just wondering… what makes you say so? How did it get that way? What, besides figurative bricks and mortar, did your father use to make it so?"

"I have no idea what you're asking," Tamara told her.

"Was there any special technique used in the construction of the Excalibur, or any other holdings of MGM, that might have seemed bizarre? Especially at the time? Particularly cutting-edge?"

"Not that we know of," Lydia said. "But we weren't involved. It might help if you could tell us what you're looking for."

"Let me ask you this: does the name Varpet mean anything to you?" Martha asked them.

The sisters looked at each other blankly. "No. Should it?" asked Lydia.

"Not sure. What about…"

And the conversation continued like this for another five to ten minutes. Martha asking vaguely _leading_ questions, and Katossian's daughters denying any knowledge.

And though she looked at the whole situation with as cynical an eye as she was capable, she simply could not believe that these women were lying to her. They seemed genuinely clueless about the process of contracting for, and constructing, the Excalibur in 1990, or any other casino-hotel in Las Vegas since then. Why was there any reason to believe that they would know? Joe Mullen had warned them that the Katossian girls had very little contact with the business end of their father's life – this visit had been a long-shot.

At some point, Tamara's husband Sam came through. He stuck around long enough for his wife to explain to him why Martha was there, he said hello to her, and then left the room. Martha noted that he was dressed the same as his wife, except in shorts, and with leather flip-flops instead of gold dress shoes. The conversation only continued for a couple of minutes after that. Eventually, Martha thanked the ladies, apologised for wasting their time, and allowed Emiliana to show her to the door.

As she was walking across the cobbled drive, Sam DiLeone was finishing a conversation with someone who seemed to be a landscaper. The other man walked off toward the manicured lawn, but DiLeone approached Martha.

"Did you get what you needed?" he asked, affably.

She sighed. "As much as could be expected, I suppose."

"Why's the U.N. interested in Curtis' technology? What technology did he even have?"

"I really can't discuss that, sir, I'm sorry," Martha told him.

"I understand."

"Although, if there's anything unusual that _you_ , yourself, can recall about the building of the Excalibur in 1990, I'd be all ears."

"I really don't know anything about Curtis' work," he said. "Though he did do a lot of his negotiations on the golf course."

"On one of _your_ golf courses?"

"Yeah," said Sam. Then he broke eye-contact with Martha. "Though… those meetings were confidential."

"Aren't they all?"

"Curtis Katossian was a good man," Sam said firmly. "I know it's hard for people to believe, but he was actually a _really_ nice guy. A really _normal_ guy."

"Why would that be hard to believe?"

"Because he was so wealthy and ambitious. But I tell you, he just wanted to do right by his family, and at the same time, give the people what they want. Overhaul Las Vegas, return it to its glory days. Give it _new_ glory days, with a new face, new guts."

"Please, Mr. DiLeone," Martha said, trying not to beg. "Mr. Katossian is deceased, and MGM Resorts International is not in any trouble. But there might be _danger_. There could be a physical threat, if Mr. Katossian's tech dealings turn out to be something other than what they seem. I know you want to protect his honour… and to be frank, sir, I think it's fairly likely that whatever he was into, he had no idea what it really was."

"What, like weaponry or something? Illegal surveillance? I mean, what is all this?"

Martha ignored the question. "It would behove us all for you to tell us what you know. Besides, if there was something shady going on, wouldn't you rather that it _not_ come out later, and perhaps make the news?"

"Excuse me?"

"Sorry, I'm not threatening blackmail or anything, but you know how these things go."

DiLeone sighed. "Okay. I don't think it was exactly shady. Curtis was an honest man and a philanthropist. He wouldn't have gotten involved in something if he thought it was illegal or immoral. And I don't know the whole story."

"Please tell me what you do know."

"Just that there was this guy," said Sam, reluctantly. He was nervously rubbing his forehead. "Curtis brought him to the golf course a couple of times – my friend Lou and I would play a round with them while they talked. They never said specifically what it was all about, but the man was definitely providing some sort of service for the Excalibur during its construction. Actually, it was before the breaking of ground, even."

"Okay," Martha said. "What was the man's name?"

"I only knew him as Roy."

"Roy Varpet? Was that his name?"

"No idea," said Sam. "I never heard his last name. Just Roy."

"What was he like?"

Sam chuckled. "Well, he was about my height," he said. "Spoke with a British accent, like yours, I guess. But he was dark, Mediterranean-looking… sort of swarthy, and with a beard. Always wore black, even on the damn golf course on the hottest day of the year. He hardly smiled, and was always so smug. He was a fantastic golfer, but never appeared to take any pleasure in it."

Martha asked a couple more questions about "Roy's" dealings with Curtis Katossian, but Sam seemed to be tapped out, as far as what he knew of it. Martha thanked him, and began to walk away. As she did, Sam DiLeone stopped her.

"If there _was_ something going on that was not on the up-and-up, I firmly believe that Curtis didn't know about it," he said. "I'm sure that whatever this Roy did, Curtis just saw it as something he paid the bill for. Like installing light fixtures, or plumbing or something."

"I'm sure that's true."

"And if it was secretive, I'm sure he was under contract."

"Probably," Martha assured him. She smiled. "Thanks.

* * *

 **Psst! Don't be like Katossian, and keep everything a secret! Tell me what you're thinkin' - leave a review!**


	6. Chapter 6

**You may or may not have seen this coming... :-D**

* * *

SIX

The Doctor was lying on the floor of the console room, as Martha spoke. He had had his head in the gears when she'd returned from her interview at the DiLeone home. He'd slid out to say hello, and never really got up.

"Swarthy, and wearing black," said the Doctor. And, there was that scowl again.

"The Man in Black," she sighed.

"Didn't DiLeone say he had a British accent?"

"So?"

"The Man In Black spoke like an American."

"So?" she repeated. "A lot of people can fake those things."

"Mm," the Doctor replied, but it was not in assent. It was uncertainty.

"What? You don't think so?"

He didn't say anything for a few moments, but got to his feet. To her surprise, he just stood there, contemplating. Then, "I've met the Man in Black, Martha. He wasn't a Time Lord. I'd know if he were. In fact, I was looking for signs of it. At the time, I was only wondering how he'd know to derail a fixed point."

"Oh," she sighed. "And now you're thinking, he wouldn't feasibly have been able to set up half-a-dozen casinos with Dimensional Transcendentalism, if he isn't a Time Lord."

"Right."

"Are you certain he's not a Time Lord? I mean, wouldn't he have anticipated your involvement? Wouldn't he know how to cloak himself from you? Suppress the, I don't know… _radiating_ of his Time Lord vibe, so that you, the Doctor, would not be able to detect him? I mean, putting aside the fact that you're also supposed to be the last of them."

"Good point," he told her with a little smile. "But if he were going to do that, cloak his Time Lord vibe, why wouldn't he just completely cloak himself from my view? Or, say... oh, I don't know, hire a lackey?"

Martha's eyebrows went up. "Oh! You think the Man in Black is someone's lackey! That's right, you've said that before – someone probably hired him."

"Yeah."

"I guess I wasn't fully processing it. It makes perfect sense – much more now I've thought it through."

"But here's the thing, Martha," said the Doctor. He looked at her with a frown, which morphed into worry. He exhaled loudly, and looked about the room. He seemed to be having difficulty with something, seemed to be looking for answers…

"What?" she asked, stepping forward. "What's wrong?"

He bit his lip, took a pause, then with a bitter chuckle, he said, "I don't want to tell you."

"Why not?"

"Because it will upset you."

"Doctor, this whole thing is upsetting!"

"Yeah, but this…"

"What? What is it, Doctor?" she asked, arms now crossed, almost accusingly. "You know me. You know me, actually, disturbingly well, so tell me what it is that you think I can't handle."

He looked her over, remembering. "Actually… nothing. Ironically."

"What does that mean?"

"It means, you've been put through the wringer," he said. "Literally forced to walk across this planet, and save it single-handedly, and you did a beautiful job. Graceful, even."

"Well, you didn't see me when I was sick with flu and being carried across Kansas by some high-school kids, but that's neither here nor there."

"You came back from it looking exhilarated, instead of beaten."

"I was exhilarated at the prospect of see you."

"Still. Ninety-nine other people would have come back looking ten years older. Wizened."

"I felt wizened on the inside. Learned a lot about myself and humanity - stuff I didn't want to know. Stuff I can't unlearn."

He nodded with understanding. He took a pause, and asked "Who put you through all of that, Martha?"

Realisation hit her like a ton of bricks. Actually, it was more like a shadow that crawled inside of her gut and deflated her organs one by one.

"No," she groaned. "No, not him."

"Sorry," he mumbled, crossing his arms and leaning against the console. He stared at his feet. "But it's the only thing that makes sense."

"There has to be some other explanation," she said stubbornly.

"Black clothing, swarthy, British, smug," he said. "You've only met the Harold Saxon incarnation of the Master. I've met them all. Back in the day, he… well, he wore black clothing, and had slicked-down black hair, and this ridiculously well-trimmed beard. He was smirky and smarmy and… as it happens, was excellent at golf."

"You played golf with the Master?" she wondered.

"Just two or three times, to try to get him talking. Never worked."

Martha shook her head. "I can't believe this. But Doctor, we saw him die!" Her voice was rising in pitch.

"We _thought_ we saw him die!"

"You _felt_ him die! You held him! You were there, pressed right up against him when he stopped breathing!" She was shouting now. Some part of her was panicking.

"Again… that's what I thought. But Martha, to be perfectly honest, even though you're the one who suffered the most at his hands, you didn't spend that much time with him. It was me and Jack and your mum and Tish who caught the brunt of his insanity on the day-to-day."

"Don't remind me," she muttered.

"And I think you grasp that he's unhinged and megalomaniacal and stubborn – that's all practically tattooed across his forehead. But I don't know if you can fully understand the magnitude of the Master's fear of death. He _will not_ die. Refuses. He will do literally _anything_ to stay alive. He burned through his regenerations long ago, and when that happened, he started _stealing bodies._ Lying, cheating and killing, just so as not to have to give in."

"Blimey," she said, as though she had a sour taste in her mouth. "I did not know _that."_

"That day on the _Valiant_ , it was a trick of some sort, I don't know why I didn't see it then," he said, staring off into space. "I guess I was too upset or distracted or whatever… I should have realised _in that moment_ that he would never just close his eyes and die, even if it meant spiting me. He's found a way. Again."

"So the Master is Varpet. And probably also Roy."

"Roy Varpet," the Doctor mused. " _King_ in French, and _Master_ in Armenian. Katossian was Armenian… the Master would have thought it quite poetic. Damn it, I should have seen _that_ straight away, too."

"How could he have done this? I mean... I guess I never thought about it but, does he even have a way of travelling?"

"Of course," the Doctor shrugged. "He used to have a TARDIS just like I do. In fact, he didn't even have to steal his – he passed his exams, the little bastard."

"What happened to it? 'Cause, when I knew him, he just used _your_ TARDIS. He could only bounce back and forth between my time and the End of the Universe."

He looked at her as though seeing her for the first time. "Oh! That's why my TARDIS has the ability to home in on the Dimensional Control! The Master must have arranged that, back when he was knocking about as Harold Saxon, waiting for us to land in London."

"Well, there's that mystery solved. Only nine hundred and ninety-nine more."

"It also explains how and why, when Mullen dialled that barmy phone code, it rang my TARDIS," the Doctor pointed out.

"Wow, I can't believe he'd bother with any of it."

"How d'you mean?"

"I mean, I can believe that the Master would make a deal with some Vegas entrepreneur and render a good chunk of the casinos on the strip bigger on the inside. For the mischief, for the destruction it must ultimately cause when it fails. Maybe as a big _fuck off_ to the Time Lords and their way of life, or even just to irritate _you._ But I don't understand why he'd tether himself to it. Why take the responsibility? Why go to the trouble of plugging your TARDIS into it, taking time out of his busy, evil schedule to do that, when he's got bigger fish to fry. Like running for Prime Minister. And, you know… taking over the Earth."

"Indeed," the Doctor commented. "And he must have had to adjust the phone number, in order to dial it into my TARDIS. He would have had to go back, and hand Katossian a new number, or have someone else do it – maybe at that time it was Lucy who delivered it, posing as a secretary or something."

"He must have wanted to make himself genuinely accessible," Martha speculated. "He must really have had some interest in keeping that Dimensional Control in working order, otherwise, wouldn't he have just given Katossian a dummy number way back when? Or relish the idea of being able to shake the whole thing off?"

"I agree."

"So, what's in it for him?"

"My guess? Money."

"What would a Time Lord want with money?"

He looked at her with tedium. "You personally know a Time Lord who recently robbed a bank. With help."

"Oh yeah," she said with a sigh, thinking shamefully back to the day when she'd helped a rogue Doctor siphon billions off a New York bank. "But that was for _us_ , for a life of indulgence... the resorts in Tahiti and in Austria, the food, the cocktails, the privacy."

"I'd have found some other nefarious means of using that money, if I'd been allowed to continue. Besides, who says the Master doesn't want the indulgence? Again, Martha, you weren't there for most of it, you didn't see how he acted during that year when he was king of the world."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," the Doctor sighed. "Just ask his masseuse."

"Ew."

The Doctor seemed to shake off that train of thought and switched gears. "This has been going on for a large chunk of the Master's life," he pointed out. "Which, as you know, constitutes centuries, though it's only been thirty years or less, here. The real question is _why here_?"

"Why here? Why on Earth, you mean?"

"Yeah. There are places throughout the universe to attain dodgy money, without the secrecy. The Earth is, no offence, really rather backward where the extra-terrestrial is concerned. Especially by the Master's standards. Come to think of it, I've never fully understood why he ever spent so much time here. He doesn't even like or respect human beings!"

"My guess? You."

"Me."

"You. I think you're a big reason why he does a lot of thing things he does, Doctor. He follows you about, so he winds up on Earth. He does stuff specifically to vex you – he's got no choice but to do them on Earth. Especially now Gallifrey's gone."

"I suppose that's true."

"Or maybe he just got stuck here."

"No, that's not it," he said. "Not until the Harold Saxon era."

"Before that, he was a traveller like you? Actually… no, right before that, he was human on Malcassairo and trying to get people to Utopia. How the hell did that happen?"

"He fled the war," the Doctor told her, musing a bit. "Any more specific than that… we'd have to ask him."

"Right."

"Well, we're going to have to go looking for him sooner or later."

"Ugh," Martha groaned. "I'm exhausted already."

"Sorry."

"But what for? To get him to undo the Dimensional Control? Wouldn't that be… bad? In some way?"

"Yes, it would," he replied.

Martha looked around the console room. "I've never bothered to wonder. What would happen if this whole thing just compressed down into the shape of the Police Box? If the Bellagio deflated down into whatever could fit in that building?"

"Things inside get crushed and/or forced out through the openings. Which causes a huge blast of air and debris and, would probably explode the Police Box, or the exterior building as the case may be."

"Okay. I'm imagining a three thousand slot machines bottlenecking at the front entrance of the Bellagio, until they all burst out onto the strip."

"And not just the Bellagio, mind you, but the Excalibur, Treasure Island, the MGM Grand…"

"Yikes. What a mess."

"Don't forget about all the other stuff inside, including people, who would get swept up and crushed in the same bottleneck."

"Oh God."

"Or," he continued. "Since the TARDIS' interior and the MGM International casino-hotel interiors are basically now in another dimension, things might get lost as they cross the Dimensional Dam."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that because the casinos' inner dimension gets turned inside-out… well, it needs somewhere to go. Eventually it could be smoothed over, but in the first few minutes, the Dimensional Dam, which is the front door of the casino, or really, any exterior door, would be vulnerable to things falling through it, into the other dimension, and never coming back out again."

"Oh, fantastic! So, people could be lost forever… to a different dimension!"

"Yep. Try explaining _that_ to next of kin."

"Okay, so again," Martha said, holding out both hands in a steadying gesture. "We don't undo the Dimensional Control."

"No, we don't. I suppose that means our first step is to straighten things out with Mullen."

"You mean, fix the seashell egg thingy, before we go after the Master?"

"Yeah. Or more accurately, tell Mullen everything, and then show him how to fix and maintain it himself so he doesn't have to rely on an intergalactic madman."

"Hm. When you say _intergalactic madman,_ do you mean yourself, or the Master?" Martha asked, with a wink.

"Does it matter?" he asked, throwing the TARDIS into gear.


	7. Chapter 7

**It's long delays between postings these days. I hope that's not ruining your momentum. I'd like to thank you for sticking with it. :-) March is a difficult month for me to get anything done, so... thanks for your attention!**

* * *

SEVEN

Martha frequented the "common" parts of the TARDIS – the console room, the bedrooms, the kitchen, the parlour and the library. Once in a while, she went to the pool or the track, one of the auxiliary wardrobes or she and the Doctor went to the rec room to play billiards.

And once, at the very beginning of their tenure together, she'd ventured with him into a very intimidating storage room, the size of Martha's entire flat, that contained a surprisingly well-organised mishmash of technological gizmos.

Again today, she found herself walking through it with him, inexplicably disturbed, her hands in her pockets, hoping that something wouldn't jump out at her. Because the fact was, the Doctor was a universal traveller, he had bric-à-brac from all corners of existence, and some of it was quite scary. Quite a few things on the shelves looked decidedly organic, not technological and it made her skin crawl, even if the Doctor assured her that none of it was "alive."

"At least not in the way that you think of _alive_ ," he said, distracted, looking for something.

"What does that mean?" she asked, with a mixture of panic and annoyance.

He didn't hear her. Next, he said, "So, Earth, 2016, a guy with degrees in Art History and Urban Studies. I guess it'll have to be a flash-drive. He can handle a flash-drive, can't he?"

"Who, Mullen? I should think so."

"Probably can't write code or launch patches."

"Probably not."

The Doctor eyed certain things on shelves. "Probably can't use a Sidouin Spackle Beam. Definitely not anything with a lash board, or an optic-nerve digital link. Right?"

"A what?"

"Oh, lash boards are cool! You'll love them!" he said, suddenly taken with whimsy, and turning to face her. "Although… well, that's about two hundred years into your future, so… we'll visit. Soon as we're done with this Las Vegas rubbish."

"Okay," she said, frowning at the gear-switch.

"Anyway, the average person in 2016 is fairly technologically savvy, at least on a basic level. Even those in their seventies can use Twitter," he said, now looking into box after box, on a row just above his head. As an afterthought, he added, "Sometimes to their own detriment."

"So, you'll be able to give him a point-and-click solution?"

"More or less. I'll have to add some Gallifreyan mojo to the mix, but Mullen won't have to deal with that bit." The Doctor then seemed to find exactly what he was looking for in a box, and said, "A-ha! Okay, what, thirty-two gigs? No… better go upwards. A hundred and twenty, maybe? That might do it, but just barely."

He pulled a little back flash drive with a hinge on one end, and a USB plug on the other. He tossed it up in the air with flourish and caught it.

"Good. Can we get the hell out of this room?"

"Not quite."

* * *

The Doctor spent another twenty minutes, with an uncomfortable Martha, looking for a second device, that he explained, would have to become a part of Mullen's desktop computer. It reminded Martha of one of those ornate, horn-shaped speakers that used to be part of old-fashioned phonograph machines. Except, it was small enough to fit in the Doctor's hand.

And, after another hour spent at the console with the flash drive and the horn-shaped thing, they parked the TARDIS back in their room at the Paris, and crossed the street to the Bellagio to visit Joseph Mullen.

This time, Mullen's secretary waved them past, and they knocked.

"Come in?" Mullen said from the other side of the door.

It did not escape Martha's notice that the man was wearing the same suit as on the previous day. Rather, he was wearing the same shirt and trousers. The jacket and tie were flung over the sofa.

Before she could stop herself, she asked, "Oh, Mr. Mullen, have you been here all night?"

Sardonically, he gestured to his wrinkled, sweaty ensemble and asked, "Gee, how'd you guess?"

The Doctor frowned. "Mullen, it's been twenty-four hours. Go home. Get cleaned up, even have a kip. We'll come back later."

"I can't," said the CEO. He gestured to the credenza containing the Dimensional Control. "What if that thing… detonates, or whatever it's going to do, and I'm not here?"

"What happens if it does that, and you _are_ here? What could you do about it? How would you even know?"

"Yep, that's occurred to me, too. Clearly, I'm sleep-deprived."

"Martha and I will stay here, just in case anything happens. You go, get some rest, and we will hold down the fort. Because I'm going to need you alert."

"Alert for what?"

"For when I show you what that glowing thing does, and how to fix it."

"No, you'll show me right now!"

"Ah-ah-ah," the Doctor scolded. "Making a power play, or whatever it is you're doing, is not going to work. I hold all the cards, sir, and I'm saying… go. You'll be glad you did. We won't leave the glowing thing, and we won't let it blow up Las Vegas or anything, okay? We won't fix it in your absence because we want you to _see_. And to do that, you're going to need to be lucid."

Mullen put his hands on his hips. "You two threatened me with torture last night!"

"No, we didn't," Martha insisted. "I was just trying to illustrate to my overzealous partner here that, unless he wanted to resort to that, there was no point in continuing to ask you questions."

Mullen frowned at her. "Are you really trained in advanced interrogation?"

"Yeah, but I've never used it."

The CEO of MGM Resorts International shuddered, contemplated, then said, "I am not leaving anyone alone here."

"Come on," the Doctor urged. "Mr. Varpet being _persona non grata,_ I'm telling you, I know how to fix that thing… and right now, that's all you've got."

The two men were seemingly at a bit of a stand-off for a few moments, then Mullen caved. "I'm activating the emergency anti-hacking protocols, and then shutting down my computer. That means there is software that will tell a team of specialists if it's been tampered with."

"Of course there is," the Doctor said, knowing he could get past all of that in two heartbeats, but planning on doing nothing of the sort. "Do whatever you have to do, so we can't look at any of your super-secret files. Let security know that we're here, if you feel you need to. Only… it's almost dinner time. Mind if we have some Thai food delivered, or something?"

Mullen seemed to think about this. Then, "Okay. An hour and a half. Ninety minutes, and I will be back."

"Oh, take longer than that," the Doctor encouraged.

Mullen went to his computer and shut it down. As he did, he explained, "I'm not going all the way home. I have a suite up on the fourth floor – I've got extra clothes and whatnot. I'll sleep for an hour, then I'll need another half-hour to shower and shave and get dressed, but then I'll be back. Mark my words."

"Okay," the Doctor said. "Want some Thai food?"

"Mee krob with extra lime in the sauce," Mullen said, grabbing his jacket, and leaving.

They heard him dismiss his secretary for the day (it was, after all, six o'clock), and heard the lift arrive, then leave.

* * *

The Doctor found a take-out Thai place nearby, and the Doctor phoned with their order. As they waited, they opened a few windows and generally tidied-up Mullen's office. They stacked the open books neatly (not closing them, not putting them away – they agreed, the man probably has a "system"), fluffed the sofa pillows, as he had clearly slept on them, and just got air flowing.

The food came, and they waited a bit longer for Mullen to come back, but ninety minutes came and went, then it became two hours – they reckoned it would be a while, so they ate without him.

Four hours went by before Mullen showed himself. He was wearing a crisp, creased pair of jeans and a blue dress shirt, and was carrying a navy blue suit coat in his left hand. When he arrived, the Doctor and Martha were playing with the plastic mini-basketball game they found in the credenza beside the Dimensional Control. Martha was winning, 12-10. They continued to play, while a much-better-rested Mullen ate his Mee krob and cheered on Martha.

And when he finished, the Doctor asked, "So, are you ready to know everything? Ready to know what Katossian knew, and just felt he couldn't tell you?"

"Yeah," Mullen said, reluctantly, and he got to his feet, still chewing.

"Do you have a photo of the Bellagio? The outside of it, I mean?"

"Of course." Mullen crossed the room and opened a previously hidden door, that led to a fold-out kitchenette, with a small sink, mini-fridge, coffee maker, et cetera. On the inside of the door, there was a black and white, 18X24 framed photo of the Bellagio, just after completion. "Will this do?"

"Yeah," said the Doctor. "Take a look at it. Can you spot the botanic garden from the outside."

"Right there," Mullen said, pointing to the dome visible in the photo.

"Lovely," chirped the Doctor. "Now, would you give us the tour?"

"Of the botanic gardens?"

"Yes!"

"Why?"

"We'll show you," the Doctor said, taking Martha's hand.

Mullen obliged, and led them through some labyrinthine passages that were too long for comfort, at least for the part of the building they were in. Martha gave the Doctor a knowing glance – _I see it now_ , her eyes said. And now she knew, she couldn't un-see it.

A non-descript industrial door led them into the area behind the check-in desk of the Bellagio. A number of young men and women in blazers greeted Mr. Mullen, and said hello to his guests, looking at them with curiosity. Mullen was polite, but did not introduce his new friends, rather, led them through a doorway into the casino, then onto the main path of traffic.

For the second time in as many days, Martha and the Doctor went through an archway and into a spectacular atrium of exotic florae. The ceiling was domed and panelled with frosted glass. Mullen was walking ahead of them, and as they passed the aviary, he turned and faced them, now walking backwards.

"Okay, now what was it you wanted to show me?" he asked.

"Keep walking," urged the Doctor.

Mullen, somewhat annoyed, turned around again, and kept going. A smaller archway led into the second room, specialising in orchids of every brilliant colour of the rainbow. The room's walls were darker, and the planters that held the flowers were black lacquer, but there was still natural light, now more like Vegas night, coming in from above. This time, the atrium ceiling was square, but still put together with frosted glass.

"Look at that," the Doctor said, looking up.

"What about it?" Muller asked.

Martha watched them both with curiosity. The Doctor glanced at her, then gazed at Mullen with eyebrows raised, waiting for him to realise it on his own.

"Oh!" said the CEO after a few beats. "That's weird."

"What's weird?" the Doctor asked.

"I guess I've never bothered to wonder… why can't we see this atrium glass from the outside? I mean... this square one. The domed one can be seen, but... hm."

Mullen returned to the doorway between the domed room and the room they were in. He attempted to look up at the two ceilings simultaneously.

"Why, indeed?" the Doctor commented, but Mullen didn't hear him.

"They're about the same height, aren't they?" asked Mullen, of no-one in particular. "I mean, it's not like the square one is smaller or lower, so as to be hidden by the round one, so… Wow, that's strange."

Martha approached him. "What do you make of it?"

He put his hands on his hips and shrugged. "I guess they must be piping in, as it were, something that mocks natural light. Some sort of industrial UV lamp."

"Hmm," the Doctor said, now approaching as well. "Seems like if you had a contractor like that on the roster, you'd know about it, eh?"

"Who knows?" Mullen chuckled. "There's a lot I don't know, as you well know… Doctor, is it? Wait, are you trying to tell me that this is what Mr. Varpet does? Some kind of special lighting? Does that mean he's also a drug-dealer or something?"

"No," the Doctor said, dismissing the question. "But, if there are some kind of natural-light mimicking lamps in the Bellagio – and if there are, they'd exist in two rooms, because there's another botanical garden that way – there would have to be computer systems that run it, right?"

"There would have to be," said Mullen. "Wait, why, exactly?"

"Because," Martha chimed in. "Don't all three rooms get dark at the same time? I mean look – it's getting dark. They're caught somewhere between day and night. Wouldn't there have to be some kind of sensor that knows what the exterior light is like, and adjusts to it? That would be relatively sophisticated. There would probably even be a small team that runs it."

"Yeah," Mullen mused.

"Do you think maybe you could show us where it's all run? Introduce us to those folks?" asked the Doctor.

"You know I can't," answered Mullen, again annoyed. "I hadn't even contemplated this until right now. Funny thing is…" He had trailed off, because he was, again standing with his hands on his hips, staring at the ceiling.

"Funny thing is what?" asked the Doctor, already suspecting what the man might say.

"Well, it's just that the house catering offices are just behind that glass dome," he said. "I've been up there for meetings – the head of the department's desk looks right out onto that dome. If this room is lit by some uber-powerful computer and/or UV lamp system from right overhead, then I can't imagine where house catering's office would fit into the puzzle."

"Mm. I can't either," the Doctor sighed.

Mullen looked at him suspiciously. "This is it. This is what you wanted to show me."

"Part of it," the Doctor conceded. "Joe, how far is it from here to the front of the hotel? Through the botanic gardens, all of those slots, through the lobby, to the doors?"

"I don't know!"

"Can you find out?"

"Maybe," he said. "But the thing is, the exact measurements of certain rooms on the interior of the building…"

"What?"

"Well, the data was lost in a computer crash about twenty years ago."

"I just bet it was," the Doctor commented.

"I mean, not all of it, but…"

"Enough that no-one can quite reconcile the inside of the building with the outside."

Mullen frowned. "What? Why would anyone want to do that?"

"What other buildings lost their data in the same crash?"

"The Excalibur, MGM Grand, Luxor, Mandalay Bay, the Mirage, Monte Carlo, New York New York… and come to think of it, Aria."

"All of MGM's Vegas casinos," the Doctor said.

"Aria?" asked Martha. "Never heard of that one."

"Built in 2009," the Doctor told her with a tip of the eyebrow.

"Ah," she nodded, realizing that it was still in "her" future.

"That was weird," Mullen said. "Just after completion, there was a blip, and their system went down for about five minutes. They re-booted just fine, and it took them about a month to realise that some measurements were lost. But it caused a problem when they were commissioning artwork for the lobby."

"Well, Joe, I have an idea," said the Doctor, affably. "Let's pace it out. From here to the front door of the Bellagio – count our steps. Maybe even all the way to the fountain on the strip."

"Okay, if you say so," Mullen shrugged. "Still waiting to be shown what the big deal is."

"I'll just follow you. I have to take more steps, so I'll just mess you guys up," Martha said.

From there, the Doctor and Joe Mullen began counting their steps from inside the second room of the botanic gardens all the way out through the casino, the hotel foyer, then across the driveway to the sidewalk bordering the famous Bellagio fountain.

"This proves what?" asked Mullen.

"Hold that thought," the Doctor said. "Let's go this way."

They made their way out to the strip, and then turned left and followed the narrow sidewalk beside highway 592, bordering the north side of the Bellagio. Then based on the landmark of the high-rise hotel portion of the building, they eyeballed a spot roughly parallel to where they had ended their pace-count near the fountain.

The Doctor said, "Okay, let's pace out the same number of steps. Ready?"

Martha stayed put, leaning against a concrete barrier while the two men counted their steps once more. When they stopped, they were in the spot where highway 592 goes over Frank Sinatra Drive, running along the back of the Bellagio, they immediately turned and came back, as this was not a place to be idling. But Martha noticed, the Doctor had to urge Mullen on, putting one comforting arm around his shoulders.

"What's wrong?" she asked when they arrived where she was standing.

Immediately, the trio made to get back to the strip, which was a much safer place to walk.

"We only counted out half the number of paces," Mullen replied quietly, thinking. "But we reached the end of the building."

"And we didn't even start from halfway in, did we?" Martha asked.

"No," he replied. "The botanic gardens are… well, behind that, there's still a few more large casino galleries, plus two restaurants. I don't understand. How can that be? Doctor, how can we have taken more steps inside the casino than outside?"

He looked at the Doctor pleadingly as they walked. The Doctor didn't say anything. He just gave the man a sympathetic expression as Martha walked ahead of them, leading them to a crosswalk on the strip. The Paris loomed before them now, with the TARDIS somewhere inside.

* * *

 **Thanks again for reading! Don't forget to leave a review!**


	8. Chapter 8

EIGHT

With Mullen muttering to himself and asking what ultimately became rhetorical questions, Martha and the Doctor led him across the street to their room in the Paris. They had put the "do not disturb" sign on their door, and sonicked the lock before they'd left it. So, the Doctor made sure no-one was about, let the blue buzz do its work, and opened the door.

They had set the door to ensure that no-one entered the room in their absence, of course, because parked there, was a blue Police Box. On the streets of London, or even Las Vegas, one might overlook it because of the perception filter. But in a space this size, the TARDIS would be impossible to miss.

"Whoa," said Mullen. "What the hell is that?"

"We're going to show you, Mr. Mullen," Martha said, as the Doctor secured the door once more. "But first, there is a thing or two you need to know."

"Like what?"

"Like, we are on your side. We are here to help, and there is absolutely _no reason_ to be frightened."

"I'm not frightened. Who's frightened?" he asked, whimsically, with a hint of bitterness. "I've just experienced something that defies the laws of physics as I understand them. Not that I'm exactly Sheldon Cooper, but even I know that what I saw was..." He trailed off and just swallowed hard.

"I know. I reacted the same way when I first saw it. Couldn't wrap my mind around it for days," she told him. It was a little white lie, she reckoned. Might make him feel less thrown. Maybe?

"So now what?" he asked her. "What's in that box that you have to prepare me for? Are you going to tell me that gravity doesn't exist? That matter doesn't equal energy?"

"No," said the Doctor, quietly. He put his hand on the man's shoulder. "She just means, what you're about to see will mess with your mind a bit. Don't freak out. Because, we have a lot to tell you, and the immediate shock of finding out what's inside this box… well, that's not even the weirdest thing about this whole business."

"Also," Martha interjected. "We're not going to, like, kidnap you or anything."

"Unless you ask us to," the Doctor added.

"Oh, that's a relief," said Mullen, sarcastically.

The Doctor guided Mullen, by the shoulder, toward the TARDIS. Martha stepped through the door before them.

And when he entered, Mullen's jaw dropped, and his face went pale.

The Doctor and Martha gave him a few moments, then Martha asked, "It's overwhelming, isn't it?"

"You can say that again."

"Would you like to sit down?" the Doctor asked, dearly wishing the colour would return to Mullen's face.

"Yes," Mullen answered, gulping. "Please."

Martha took him by the hand and led him up the ramp to the console platform, and guided him to the singular seat in the room.

"All right?" she asked, as the Doctor adjusted a few controls.

"I guess. Yeah."

"Do you understand what we're trying to tell you?"

Mullen nodded vigourously.

After a minute's silence, the man asked, "So… I'm guessing this is not… Earth-based?"

"It is not," the Doctor said.

"And you?"

"I'm not either. Martha is, but I'm not. And Mr. Varpet is not."

"Katossian?" asked Mullen.

"He's human," the Doctor told him. "Far as I know, anyway."

"So you're saying, Katossian made a deal with an alien?"

"That is correct."

"Oh," said Mullen. "Well, that explains a lot."

"Sorry," the Doctor said. "I needed you to see the inside of the TARDIS before I started telling the story. Ordinarily, when I just blurt out the fact that I'm not human… well, people get a little edgy. Mostly because they think I'm a nutter."

"Heh," Mullen chuckled. "Imagine that." Again, he swallowed hard and looked at his new friends. He seemed to have both anticipation and worry in his eyes.

"Are you ready to hear this?" Martha asked. "If you need some time…"

"Tell me," Mullen interrupted. "Tell me everything."

The Doctor settled in, leaning against the console, his arms crossed over his chest. "There is – was – a race of people, across the universe, who looked very much like you, talked very much like you, but _think_ very differently. I am of that species, and so is Mr. Varpet."

"I see."

"And when I say that we think very differently, I mean…"

"…you're much more advanced?" asked Mullen.

"Well, for lack of a better way to put it, yes. Technologically-speaking, at least. And, well, in the way of intergalactic relations. And working with the laws of physics. But there are a number of things that humans do better."

"There are? Like what?" Martha wondered.

"Like finding nuance," the Doctor answered. "Tolerating differences, accepting challenges. Evolving. Exploring. And these are the reasons why I always, frankly, preferred the company of humans. Even before our planet was destroyed."

"Oh. How did that happen?" asked Mullen.

"That's neither here nor there," the Doctor answered, with a flick of the wrist. "The point is, there's a man who comes from the same race as I, and he had some of the same frustrations as I, concerning the black-and-whiteness of our society. He had ingenuity, he had some _differences_ that were not exactly tolerated by our people. The tragic thing was, I took that frustration and turned it into… well, I like to think, something good. He took it and became a megalomaniac. A villain of a fairly high order."

"So, if I'm understanding you correctly, there is a technologically-advanced villain," Mullen chuckled. "Who knows how to manipulate the laws of physics, and defy them, at least as this planet knows them. And he has an interplanetary reach. This sounds like a comic book."

"It does, yes," the Doctor agreed, with a smirk. "I've spent a good chunk of my very long life trying to clean up messes he's made all over the universe. In fact, Martha has been known to be _indispensable_ to that end, as well."

"Your very long life?" Mullen asked. "You've got to be, what? Ten, fifteen years younger than me!"

"I'm over nine-hundred years old," said the youthful-looking Time Lord. "And the man I'm talking about, the man whom Curtis Katossian knew as Roy Varpet, is even older."

Mullen gulped hard, and nodded in acceptance of this information. Then he asked, "So what, do you just age a lot more slowly than we do, or were you born looking like you do now?"

"My species can regenerate," said the Doctor. "New face, new body, new personality. Only the mind, memory and fundamental priorities stay intact. The core of who we are. So, I was born as a squalling babe, as were you. I grew up like you did, and eventually, I died. But when that happened, I just got a new body and kept on kicking."

"That is…" Mullen began in disbelief.

"Mental, right?" Martha finished, with a big smile.

"At least!" responded the CEO.

The Doctor smirked. "It's pretty cool, I'll admit." Then he lost the attitude, and said, "But the flip-side of it is, if I can regenerate, so can Varpet. Or rather, the Master."

"The Master?" asked Mullen.

"Yes, that's his real name. Or… more or less, anyway. He has used a number of aliases over the years… have you ever heard of Harold Saxon?"

"You mean that guy who was Prime Minister of Great Britain for, like, two days, before he had a heart attack and died?"

"Yeah, that's him. That was the Master."

" _That_ was him? That was Varpet?"

"One and the same," said the Doctor.

"So he's dead now," Mullen surmised.

"Not necessarily."

"Oh, because he can regenerate."

"Well… okay, yes. Basically," the Doctor answered, glossing over some very complicated issues, and questions he himself could not very well answer. "Anyway, I had never heard of the Master calling himself Roy Varpet until meeting you. Since Varpet means _master_ in Armenian, my guess is that it's a moniker he reserved for when he dealt with Katossian."

"Right," Mullen said, nodding. "Very smart. It would have given him an _in_ with Katossian."

"On your advice, Mr. Mullen, I went and spoke to Katossian's daughters earlier today," Martha informed him. "His son-in-law had memories from the late eighties, playing golf with a guy named Roy. From the description, and other factors, the Doctor concluded that Roy is Varpet, and also the Master."

"But an earlier incarnation of the Master," the Doctor said. "From way back. Near as I can tell, he must have approached Mr. Katossian sometime in the mid-to-late eighties, because he had heard that there was a refurbishment of the Las Vegas strip in the works. Correct me if I'm wrong, but MGM Resorts International opened the Excalibur in 1990."

"You are not wrong," Mullen confirmed.

"So the Master somehow convinces Katossian that, a) Dimensional Transcendentalism is possible, and b)…"

"Wait. What?" asked Mullen.

"Dimensional Transcendentalism. The phenomenon that can make a building – or a Police Box – bigger on the inside. Used correctly, it could allow for infinite space."

"Wow."

"So… first, he breaches the subject of defying the laws of physics. Then he convinces Katossian that he's not either a crook or a head case – even though he's both. Then, he's got to talk him into using what he would have tried to sell as _cutting edge technology_ to expand the strip, make the hotels and casinos spectacular, on a level that no one on this planet had ever seen before. MGM Resorts International revives Las Vegas! Then the MGM Grand gets a makeover, then here comes Luxor and Mandalay Bay… all stuffed to the gills – and then some – with slot machines, shops, restaurants, bars, theatres, IMAX screens – you name it."

"Then they go through a period of what? A year's negotiation, during which they wheel and deal while golfing," Martha shrugged, looking at Mullen.

Mullen nodded. "Katossian's son-in-law owns those country clubs, or whatever they are. That'd be why he remembers."

"And I'm guessing," the Doctor said. "That Katossian, or rather, MGM Resorts International, paid through the nose for this technology. For Time Lord technology."

"Time Lord technology," the CEO mused, as though trying to words on for size. "Time Lord. Is that your people?"

The Doctor nodded. "I'm guessing it wasn't just a one-time payout either. Are there any expenditures that go someplace you can't explain? Or that you were asked to ignore?"

"I can't think of anything. I'm sure if I did some digging I could find a suspicious shell company or something."

The Doctor grimaced. "Nah, I wouldn't bother. I think Katossian probably paid him privately."

"You think?"

"Given the secrecy he tried to maintain, I do think. And I think that when he died, the money stopped coming in, and that's why the Master stopped maintaining your Dimensional Control, and that's why it's turned yellow, and that's why, if left unchecked, it will all collapse and possibly suck thousands of tourists into another dimension. If it doesn't just crush them."

"Holy shit," Mullen commented, as if exhausted.

"Yep, exactly," the Doctor agreed. "So, that's why you're lucky you have me. And I have this."

The Doctor grabbed the man's hand and put a flash drive in it.

"What's this?"

"This is your key to keeping the glowing green thing in your office maintained."

"A Dimensional Control. Is that what you called it?"

"Yes. It's an indicator, and if you're a Time Lord, you can use it to calibrate settings on a Dimensionally Transcendental space. A human wouldn't have a prayer. Which is why you need _this!"_

The Doctor then brandished the horn-shaped device, and put it in Mullen's free hand.

"And this would be?"

"It is the key to freedom from the greedy and oppressive Mr. Varpet, while still maintaining the transcendental interiors of MGM's holdings in Las Vegas."

"Why would you do this for me? For us?" asked Mullen, staring at the flash drive in his hand.

"Weren't you paying attention?" asked the Doctor. "I use my powers for good. Tourists... sucked into another dimension... bad news. Yeah?"

With that, he threw a few gears into place on the TARDIS console, Martha put a comforting arm around Joe Mullen's shoulders, and the vehicle made its trademark _grind_ , as it moved.

"What the hell is happening?" Mullen asked, grasping Martha's hand, instinctively.

"Take a look," said the Doctor, gesturing toward the door, as the TARDIS stopped.

* * *

The three of them stepped outside, and into Mullen's office. The shocked CEO put his hands out to his sides and gestured to the whole room, with his mouth open. He didn't seem able to speak.

"I know, right?" Martha said, with a smile.

"My whole world…" he croaked.

"Has changed in the last ten minutes?" she finished.

"Yeah," he sighed, putting his arms down, resignedly.

"Right, then," the Doctor said, moving toward Mullen's desk. "Flash drive, please."

Mullen handed it over.

"After today," the Doctor said. "You shouldn't need me, nor Varpet-slash-Master, to keep MGM's holdings Dimensionally Transcendental. But then, when it comes time to rebuild, Mr. Mullen, I will expect you, or your successors, to do the right thing, and put an end to all this."

"Don't worry," said Mullen. "Though, how would I do that safely?"

" _That_ is when you call me."

"Okay. How do I do that?"

"Just… stay tuned. Now, one of the problems with a Dimensional Control like the one there in the credenza is that it's… well, Time Lord technology. It takes a Time Lord's mind to manipulate it," the Doctor explained, plugging the flash drive into Mullen's CPU, which was roughly the size of he iPhone in Martha's handbag. "That's where _this_ comes in."

With that, he brandished the device that had reminded Martha of a horn-shaped speaker from an old phonograph machine. It was small enough to fit in the Doctor's hand, looked to be made of clear plastic, and seemed to have Galifreyan writing on it.

"What is that?" asked Mullen.

"This is a translator," he said. He looked at Martha. "It runs on the same kind of mojo as the TARDIS' translation circuits. Except…"

He picked up the CPU plugged the horn into some outlet that neither Martha nor Mullen saw, sonicked it, and the thing lit up a bright shade of green. It was the same glow that came from the Time Rotor at the centre of the TARDIS' console. said, "… except it works backwards. Human to Time Lord, not Time Lord to human."

"Come again?" said Martha.

"It will translate this computer's point-and-click commands into… for lack of a better way to put it, Time Lord thought. Which will be aimed exclusively at that Dimensional Control, in that credenza just there, and our friend Joe will be able to control what happens with the Dimensional dams in the Bellagio, and in all of the applicable casino-hotels. Held by MGM Resorts International, of course."

"Seriously?" Mullen asked, incredulous. "How do I do that?"

"I'll show you," the Doctor said. "Come here."

Mullen came round to the other side of the desk.

"Now, Mr. Mullen, with all due respect, I'm going to suggest that you don't maintain the same secrecy with the next CEO, when you decide to retire. It's too dangerous. It's also dangerous to let anyone else, including the shareholders – especially the shareholders – know about it. So, there's always going to be a huge amount of discretion involved, but not of the sort that Katossian kept. How much of this could have been avoided if he'd just told _you,_ if no-one else, the truth, eh?"

"No kidding."

"I'm also going to suggest that every six months or so, you reduce the size of the inner dimensions of each casino by, oh, say, one hundred feet. You'll have to choose wisely, maybe five feet here, ten feet there... this should slowly reduce the risk of…"

"Doctor?" Martha said, her voice quavering.

He didn't hear her.

"…of a dimensional collapse," he continued. "Which, granted, is now much less, given that you can sort of control it yourself. And you do that by opening this app. See? Just click here. But someday, the time will come…"

"Doctor!" she said louder.

"What?" he asked, irritated.

She pointed out the window.

And there he was. The Man in Black. Walking through a small plaza area, illuminated by the exterior lights of the Bellagio.

"Blimey!" the Doctor shouted.

With that, he bolted out the door of Mullen's office, and Martha followed.

* * *

 **Hey folks! Thanks for reading! Please leave me a review now... I thrive on that feedback! *hugs***


	9. Chapter 9

NINE

The Doctor in his Converse, and Martha in her tan boots, burst through a door labelled "stairs" just outside of Joseph Mullen's office, and practically jumped down two flights of stairs to the street. They had seen the Man in Black walking below, toward the strip. When they burst through the door on street-level, it didn't take long to orient themselves, given the half-scale-sized Eiffel Tower hovering just across Las Vegas Boulevard.

They jogged, eyes peeled for their target. They spotted him, just as he was walking past the Bellagio fountain and was turning right.

He was wearing black, of course, but his attire was twenty-first century appropriate, whereas when they'd seen him before, he'd worn clothes chosen for 1966. Today's ensemble was a fitted black t-shirt and a pair of black jeans, and black boots.

They gained on him until they were about twenty metres behind. But when the man reached the first corner, it was the end of the "walk" cycle. He bolted across the street, glancing over his shoulder at them.

"What?" the Doctor shouted. "He knows we're here?"

They both took off after him, entering traffic frantically. They very narrowly missed being mowed-down by several moving vehicles, causing honks and curses from motorists.

"Sorry!" Martha said to them, fruitlessly. "So sorry!"

The Doctor kept a close eye on the Man In Black as they crossed. He had disappeared behind a partition of some sort…

"The Aria," he said.

He and Martha followed him behind the partition and found themselves in the luxuriously large, crescent-shaped driveway of the hotel. They ran down the long cloister-like sidewalk alongside the building, past the shuttles and taxis unloading, and having to leap over at least one dog. And as they did, they could see their mark through the mini-grove of trees lining the path. He glanced at them before turning right, and then disappeared inside the Aria Resort and Casino. Martha cursed inwardly, realising that this was one of MGM Resorts International's holdings, meaning that this building would, too, be bigger on the inside. They were likely to lose the Man In Black inside the labyrinth.

But just as they crossed the threshold of the casino's entrance, which they both absently realised was another Dimensional Dam, they saw a door just to the left closing. It was a door that said, "private," and neither of them would have noticed it was there, without the slight bit of moving light that came from it when it swung shut. Moreover, it was a door on the front wall of the building, that, to the casual observer, would seem to lead nowhere. Except perhaps out to the driveway, where they had just been.

The Doctor, however, and his Companion for that matter, knew better, of course. In truth, the Doctor reckoned that no "casual observer" would ever see it.

They gave each other a knowing look, and went for the door.

It opened into a surprisingly dark and oppressive area, but still a larger space that should have been possible according to the laws of physics on Earth.

There was a stairwell. The Man In Black had begun to climb.

"You know what, mate?" the Doctor called to him. "You can climb, but we both know you're headed for a dead-end. We'll just follow until you hit a wall."

The man stopped in his tracks on the first landing.

"How do you know that?" he asked.

"Well, I didn't. Not 'til just now," said the Doctor.

The Man In Black sighed heavily and descended. "Okay. So you've _cornered me_. Ooooh, I'm so scared."

Then he stood awkwardly for a few moments, and tellingly, broke eye-contact with the Doctor.

The Doctor laughed. "You actually _are,_ aren't you?"

The man said nothing.

Martha studied him. He was better-looking than she remembered, perhaps because when she'd last seen him, he'd been dressed for 1966. As he was dressed today, she could see that he had rather a good build. He had closely-cropped, curly black hair, and appeared to her to have some Middle-Eastern heritage. Though, he was three or four inches shorter than the Doctor, and seemed diffident, a bit cowed.

"But not scared of _us,_ " the Doctor continued. "You're afraid of what your boss will do when he finds out you allowed yourself to be followed. And by me, no less."

The man frowned. Much like when they first started questioning Mullen, Martha read genuine confusion on the man's face, as the Doctor simply ploughed forward.

The Doctor looked him over. "So, I'd say you haven't changed much. Well, not enough for fifty years to have passed, anyway. I'd make you, what? Thirty? Thirty two years old?"

"Yeah," said the Man In Black, his frown deepening, and looking the Doctor over from head to toe. "Right back at you."

"Ah, but I have an excuse not to have aged over the course of half a century. Actually, I have two," said the Doctor. He took a pause to study the man once more.

The man crossed his arms over his chest, stared uneasily at the stone floor beneath his feet, and said nothing.

"But you're human, aren't you?" he continued. "By rights, you should be about eighty by now."

"So should you," the man said softly. Then he looked at Martha. "And you."

"More like seventy-five," she said, shrugging. "But yeah, point taken."

"You're not a Time Lord," the Doctor declared, circling round the very uncomfortable man. "I'd be able to feel it. And I feel nothing. I mean… I'm right here. Like _this close_ to you, and… nothing. So, it's as I thought."

"What is?" the man wondered, though his voice trembled a bit.

"You've been doing a bit of time-travelling, am I right? Which means you've probably teamed-up with someone who knows about such things. What are you using, a vortex manipulator?"

The man said nothing.

The Doctor got very close to him. They would have been practically nose-to-nose if there hadn't been a significant height difference. "Listen very closely to me… what's your name?"

"Farid."

Martha reckoned she knew what was coming next. It wasn't the Doctor's style to chastise a scared man, who was clearly a pawn of some sort. And they had already more or less worked out who was behind the spatial anomalies dotted all over Las Vegas.

And she was right.

"Listen to me, Farid. The Master is bad news. I don't know what he's offered you or promised you, but he can't be trusted. He's only in it for himself. He's violent, egomaniacal, and no matter what you think, he doesn't care about you. You will wind up ditched in some far-off time period when he's decided you're not useful anymore."

The man grimaced. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"He needs a lackey, a whipping boy, if you like. That would be you."

"Who is _he?_ "

The Doctor sighed in exasperation and withdrew a few steps from Farid. His whole demeanour seemed to say, _I'm so sick of this._ "Look, don't play dumb, all right? I don't have time for it. You don't have time for it. Martha doesn't have time for it, and I'd wager, even _the Master_ doesn't have any bloody time for it."

Farid laughed. "I'm sorry, but I have no idea who 'The Master' is. Sounds like someone with daddy issues to me."

"All right then," the Doctor said, annoyed. "Roy Varpet. Whatever you call him, he's bad news! Do you hear me?"

"I don't know who Roy Varpet is either," Farid said, again, chuckling. "You must have me confused with someone else."

Martha frowned. "Why would you deny it?" she asked. "It's not like there's _anyone_ else it could be!"

" _What_ could be?" Farid asked, both hands out to his sides now, in an exaggerated shrug.

"The Dimensional Transcendentalism! There is literally _no one_ who could have set up such a thing, on such a large scale – or on any scale at all – apart from _me_ or the Master. And now, Martha and I are here, in this time and place, skulking about, trying to work out why the Dimensional Control is all going wonky under the nose of poor, clueless Joseph Mullen, who just wants to run a company, and _you_ turn up here! In Las Vegas! On this date in 2016! And now, you're inside a secret passage within the Aria hotel, which, by all rights of this planet's knowledge of physics, shouldn't even exist. The odds that this is all a coincidence are… well, I was going to say astronomical, but I'll just go with _nil_. There is _no way_ that you have zero connection with the Master."

"Look, man, I don't know what you want from me…"

"In May of 1966, you derailed a fixed point," the Doctor said, now very earnest, his voice low and devoid of all humour.

"Did I?" Farid asked. His tone, however, had turned toward the whimsical.

"Yes," the Doctor breathed, holding back some kind of outburst. Gritting his teeth, he continued, "A woman and her lover were supposed to die, and you saved them. Because they lived, it brought about Armageddon for the Earth sometime in 2008 – that was the desired result, I should think. And you knew that, didn't you?"

"Perhaps."

"But not because you _knew_ it. _You_ don't have the ability to do that – you're as human as they come. Someone _told_ you. Someone who can feel time in his bones just the way I can."

By now, the Doctor was practically seething, and hovering over Farid like a vulture.

At this moment, however, Farid's phone rang.

"Hold that thought," he said to the Doctor. He extracted the gadget from his pocket, slid one finger sideways over his phone's screen, and said, "Hi… yeah, sorry, I've been detained. No, no, calm down, I said I was sorry. Yeah, I'm being, for lack of a better word, _questioned._ "

"That's got to be him," Martha whispered to the Doctor.

"Yep," he replied.

"No, not by hotel security," Farid said into the phone. "By… someone else." He looked the Doctor over as though judging him harshly, with disgust.

The Doctor had had enough of this game. He lurched forward and grabbed the phone out of Farid's hand, held it to his ear and said, darkly, "Hi there, old friend."

"Well! Hello, Doctor!" said the voice on the other end of the line, delightedly.

But the voice was not at all the one the Doctor had been expecting to hear. Not by a long-shot.

* * *

 ***whispers* Leave a review! *hugs***


	10. Chapter 10

**What you are about to read will not fit in with the Doctor Who timeline as we know it. But what the hell? It's fan fiction, right? Also, when characters are time-travellers, they scoff at timelines anyhow!**

 **I hope you have as much fun with this scene as I did!**

* * *

TEN

"Who is this?" the Doctor shouted harshly into the phone.

The voice on the other end laughed. "Oh, Doctor, you haven't changed a bit, have you?"

"That depends who's asking," said the Time Lord.

"Oh, it's me," the voice lilted. "It's me, it's me! I'm asking from all points in time. Apparently, anyway."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Who knows?" said the voice with a cackle. "You know I'm a little unhinged. Always have been, _n'est-ce pas_?"

The Doctor made a face that suggested tedium. "Well you're certainly a bit off-kilter just now," he muttered amid hysterical laughter.

"Who is it?" Martha whispered loudly, though she had clearly heard the Doctor ask that very question. He shrugged at her exaggeratedly, and scowled hard at Farid.

"Oh, Doctor, I can't wait to see you!"

"Yeah, you know, the feeling is mutual," he said with an absurd amount of enunciation. "Although I believe you'll have me at a disadvantage."

More laughter. "All right then, you handsome devil, you. I'll be right there – don't move a muscle!"

And then the line went quiet, and the Doctor handed the phone back to Farid.

"She's coming," he said darkly.

"She?" asked Martha, incredulously.

The Doctor nodded once, and the look of disgust, mistrust, trepidation and _the unknown_ on his face, gave Martha the chills.

The three of them stood in an impossible stairwell silently, awkwardly, for the thirty seconds it took for a door upstairs to open, and for the woman's voice to fill the space.

"Yoo-hoo! Doctor!"

He sighed. "Who is she?" he asked Farid, his voice low and firm.

Farid shrugged. "I don't really know," he answered mutedly.

"Oh, don't be so daft! How can you not know?" the Doctor hissed.

Meanwhile, footsteps down the metal stairs were coming closer, and giggles could be heard coming from the woman in question.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she half-sang, half-moaned, "Doctor," in a way that seemed to him oddly familiar. But he was fairly certain he had never seen her face before.

The Doctor and Martha sized her up separately.

For his part, the Doctor did not receive a _human vibe_ from her, though he had admitted to Martha earlier that his ability to assess a _human vibe_ might, in fact, be total rubbish. But, he reckoned, not this time. Something about her got under his skin much, much more than any human ever could. The sensation he received was familiar, and yet... impossible.

She had only said one word to him face-to-face, and already he could tell that she was trying to put him off-balance. He had an idea that she was clever and crafty – not your average attractive woman, flirting with a man to get the upper hand. Not even your average _alien_ , pretending to be an attractive woman…

But his gut was turning over. Some sort of sense was tingling, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Again, familiar and yet, impossible.

Though, how impossible, really?

Martha noticed that she and the woman were both in heels, and the other woman was just a bit taller. Martha wore boots, but the new arrival donned black spike pumps, with a black business suit. The blazer was buttoned at her thin waist (though flared out to show her formidable curves), and the trousers were painted-on tight, really more like leggings. She had dark hair styled in a carefully-crafted "messy bun" on top of her head, large eyes, a severe mouth, and in human terms, Martha judged her to be about thirty-five to forty years of age.

Inwardly, she chuckled. _Striking features, stylishly-mussed dark hair, well-fitted suit, looks to be maybe thirty-seven or so… sound familiar?_

"I would sexily heave your name right back at you, if I knew it," the Doctor said, though not flirtatiously. He was annoyed and made no secret of it.

The woman chuckled. "Oh. My _companion_ hasn't told you yet?" she asked, tossing a glance toward Farid.

The young man frowned. "I didn't think you'd want me to do that. You said the Doctor was…"

"Hush now, love," the woman lulled, condescendingly. "You're _thinking_ again. What have I told you about that?"

Farid clammed up immediately, though not necessarily happily.

"And by the way, you and I will deal later with the fact that you allowed yourself to _get caught!_ But I digress," she said. Then, her tone changed, and she practically shouted, smiling widely, "Speaking of _companions_ … Martha Jones! Fancy meeting you here!"

Martha frowned with confusion. "Yeah. Fancy that."

"It's so good to see you!" the woman said, coming toward her. She walked up to Martha and wrapped both arms around her for a hug, which Martha received with no welcome, no affection, no movement, and with a quizzical frown in the Doctor's direction. The woman pulled back from her after a few seconds, and took both of Martha's hands in hers, then held them aside and seemed to look her over. "You're looking well! Fit as ever!"

"Erm… thanks?" Martha said, awkwardly.

"Physical fitness is an important quality in a _companion_ , isn't it, Doctor?" With that, she gave the Doctor a deep wink. "I mean, just check out my Farid."

She moved toward Farid and ran one hand over his chest, then rested her palm on one of his well-muscled biceps.

"Yeah… he's a dish," the Doctor said flatly.

"Isn't he just?" she said, giddily. "I mean, just fancy a woman my age gallivanting about with this one. I mean… he keeps me hopping! Well, he keeps me doing lots of things." She planted a wet kiss on Farid just then, which seemed to mortify the man.

The woman then looked Martha over again.

Martha became self-conscious, and began to look herself over. She gazed down at her chest, and practically shouted, "What? Do I have marinara sauce on my shirt? What's the look for, eh?"

"Sorry, sorry, dear. I'm being rude," the woman conceded exaggeratedly. "It's just… I can't help but think… Farid is in great shape, make no mistake, but, well, he's not you."

"No, indeed, he is not," Martha said cautiously, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Farid," said the woman, turning toward her companion. "You can learn a thing or two from this woman, about what it _really_ means to be a faithful companion. Miss Jones – or is it Dr. Jones now?"

"What are you saying?" Martha spat. "How do you even know me _at all_?"

"Dr. Jones once _literally_ walked across the planet for this man," she told Farid. "Walked. Meaning on-foot. Across five continents. All for the love of the Doctor. Isn't that sweet?"

"Yeah," Farid answered, having no other choice.

" _That_ is true love, that is. It also might account for that tight little body of hers, eh? I mean, I'd _kill_ for a bottom like that."

"Okay, that's enough," the Doctor interjected.

"Oh, don't get your pants in a bunch, Doctor," she scolded. "Don't tell me you've never looked! Even I've looked! I mean, come on, you could bounce a coin off that arse!"

Martha took two steps back, and shifted positions uncomfortably, and noted that this woman, whoever she was, had her _and the Doctor_ completely off their game. The Doctor clearly had little or no idea what to make of her, and in fact, she was employing the Doctor's favourite trick of _talking_ the adversary into submission. Somehow she doubted, though, that her intentions, in so doing, were as noble as the Doctor's generally were.

She wondered if perhaps the Doctor was letting the woman talk because it was a way to gather information about her. What she knew about the two of them was truly surprising… how could she know it? Martha wondered if the Doctor was close to working it out.

"Speaking of which, Doctor," the woman continued. "Have you thrown this poor woman a bone yet? Literally or figuratively? I mean, you _know_ she's got it bad for you, and any woman who would do for you what she did…"

Martha's stomach did flips. The woman knew, not only about Martha's actions during The Year That Never Was, but also of Martha's feelings for the Doctor, and that for far too long, those feelings went unreciprocated. She cursed inwardly.

The Doctor did not answer the question, but remained in a steady scowl, perhaps hoping to stare her down.

The woman began laughing hysterically. "Oh, that's chuffing brilliant! You _have!_ " she cackled. She turned to Martha. "Congratulations, Martha. He finally melted that cold and noble shell and showed you what's inside those well-fitted trousers of his!"

"Wow," Martha commented, incredulous.

"I myself would not know," she continued. "But I know _him_ well enough to know that if I'd asked a bawdy question like that, and the answer were _no_ , he'd have exploded at me with righteous indignation. The lack of an answer, well… it tells me he's been giving it to you good. Yeah?"

Martha's eyebrows went up even higher. "Wow," she repeated.

"Good for you, Doctor. Martha deserves it."

The Doctor exhaled heavily, and echoed Martha. "Wow."

"He thinks he's so damn inscrutable," the woman laughed, again addressing Martha, now, as if they were old girlfriends. "But a woman knows how to read a man. Never believed that until now, actually – funny old life, this. But actually, truth be told, I've always been able to read the Doctor. He'd tell you that's rubbish, but actually, he's a pretty easy bloke to read. For instance, right now, he's wondering how to respond to me without letting on that he's still not sure who I am."

At that, she laughed.

The Doctor moved toward the wall, and leaned against it, making a show of being bored. "I'll just wait. Clearly, you've been rehearsing quite a while to put on this little song and dance, so, far be it from me to interrupt. I reckon you'll tell me something I can use when you get bloody good and ready."

"Shall we bring them upstairs?" Farid asked her.

She sighed, looking at Farid, as though she couldn't believe how stupid he was.

"I'll tell you, Doctor," she sighed. "Not only is Farid not as fit as Martha – having lacked that whole ultimate aerobic experience and whatnot – but he's not half as clever either."

"Now _that_ I can see," the Doctor agreed.

"She's clever, clever, clever," chirped the woman. Turning to Martha, she said, "And I mean that. From the bottom of my hearts, Martha."

"Hearts?" Martha asked.

The Doctor stood up straight, with recognition, and a slight bit of panic in his eyes.

That feeling. That familiar, impossible feeling...

"Brilliant enough to bring a Time Lord to his knees," the woman said. Then she winked. "Whatever that may mean to you."

"Hearts?" Martha repeated. "Plural?"

She saw Farid frown. He hadn't known.

The woman looked at the shock and uproar on the faces of everyone in the dank room.

She fixed her gaze on the Doctor. "Oh, look at that. He's just worked it out. How very droll."

"Doctor, how... what...?" Martha asked, unable to quite articulate all of the questions coming to mind.

The woman moved and put her arm around Martha's shoulder, in another hug against her will. "Aw, bless. The brilliant Dr. Jones isn't there yet."

"Get your hands off her," the Doctor commanded, moving toward them both, with razor blades in his voice.

"Now, now, no need to be that way. Things have changed, wouldn't you say, Doctor?" she said, indicating her face with her free hand, and then her curved hip. "It's not like the old days when we'd have to, you know... compete for the same resources. She's all yours."

"Get away from her _now_ ," the Doctor commanded once again. He tightened his teeth and approached the woman, tried to stare her down. "After what you put her through, you'd have the gall to…"

"Yeah, gall," said the woman, letting go of Martha, and hardening along with the Doctor. Her eyes narrowed, and her sickeningly sweet demeanour melted away. "It's what I've got. It's what I've always had, and what you've always lacked. I suppose you could say it's why we have never got on. Or, at least, not in a long, long time."

Confusion clouded every part of Martha's vision and ability to cogitate. She hadn't noticed, but Farid had drifted over to her side.

"What the hell?" he breathed at her.

"Wish I knew," she responded.

* * *

 **Yay! Leave me a review!**


	11. Chapter 11

**So much fun was this chapter! Hope you enjoy it as much as I did!**

* * *

ELEVEN

"Gin and tonic," said Farid, the Man in Black, to the waitress.

"I dunno… white wine?" Martha said.

"Coke with a lime," the Doctor said, reluctantly.

"Aw, isn't that cute?" the woman said to Martha. She leaned across the small table conspiratorially and said, "He wants to stay alert – afraid I'll take advantage of him. And who wouldn't, right?" She winked, and then nudged the Doctor with an elbow.

"Would you please stop flirting with me?" the Doctor requested. "It's creepy."

"Oh, please, honey, I've always done that! You just chose not to notice, back when you were all proper and stuffy," said the woman. Then she turned her attention toward the waitress. "Now, what's in the Aria Signature Cocktail?"

"Marshmallow-flavoured vodka, Rumchata, cinnamon whisky and cream. And it comes with chocolate-covered espresso beans on the side," said the waitress.

"Hoo!" the woman cried out, making people turn and look. "That'll have me on the floor in five and a half seconds! It'll also rot my teeth. How delightful. Tell you what, bring me one of those, only put the chocolate-covered espresso beans right in the glass."

"In the glass?"

"Yes! And could you add a shot of Bourbon? No, Scotch. And I want three cherries on a skewer. And one of those umbrellas."

"Okay, sure," the waitress said, shaking her head, writing it all down.

"And, is it served in a hurricane glass?"

"No, it's in a martini glass."

"I want it in a hurricane glass. Filled to the top. And a slice of pineapple over the rim of the glass, and one of those things with the little hanging streamers… you know what I'm talking about?"

"Yeah. Anything else?"

"That'll do," said the woman, waving the waitress away with a flick of her fingers.

She had reverted to form, and gave the Doctor a charming smile.

"So, what are you calling yourself these days?" he asked her. He pushed himself away from the table a bit, extended his legs, crossed his ankles, and his arms, settling in for a long visit.

"Missy," she replied. "Suits me, don't you think?"

"Doesn't it just," he muttered.

"And you're…" Martha interrupted. She stopped short and swallowed hard.

Missy smirked at her. "I'm what? Roy Varpet? Harold Saxon? _The Master_? Yep. In the flesh." She grabbed her own bosom. "In, as it turns out, _more_ flesh."

Martha took a deep breath and exhaled hard. "Blimey." She looked at the Doctor. "Is this really a thing? Or is it because he stole a body again?"

"It's a thing," he said. "It's a _rare_ thing, but it's a thing. Something like ninety-five per cent of all regenerations are male-into-male, female-into-female, but once in a while…"

"Time Lords, like toads, can spontaneously change gender. No-one knows why," Missy shrugged.

"It's kind of intriguing, actually," the Doctor admitted. "There are theories. Like, is it karmic? Is it answering some kind of biological imperative? Is it a message that one regeneration sends to the next?"

"Er, not trying to freak you out, love, but there only being two of us left, I wouldn't rule out the biological imperative thing," said Missy. "I'd venture to say, it was a roll of the dice as far as which one of us went all Victoria instead of Victor."

"Oh, please tell me that's not why we're here," Martha practically whined.

"What? To procreate?" Missy asked. Then she laughed. "As if. I'm just saying, if we're asking _why,_ then…"

"So, are you, like, trans?" asked Farid, suddenly piping up, and addressing Missy with disdain.

All three of them looked at Farid rather incredulously. For her part, Martha realised at that moment that Farid _really_ had no idea who Missy was, and/or what any of them were talking about. If he did, the word _regeneration_ ought to tip him off that this wasn't a simple case of a transgendered individual.

But, in the stairwell, the Doctor had revealed Missy's true identity to Martha, she had dropped her jaw and exclaimed, _"That's_ him?"

At this, Farid had asked Missy point-blank, "What? Were you once a man, or something?"

"Yes, dear, try and keep up," she had said, patting him on the head.

Farid shuddered, and for a moment, Martha and the Doctor both separately took pleasure in his discomfort.

Amid the firestorm of questions the Doctor began to fire at her, Missy had eventually held up both hands in "disarmed" fashion, and said, "Okay, okay, slow down, tiger. Let's all have a drink, yeah?"

And so here they were, in Lift Bar, inside the Aria. Though now, they were in an area of the hotel accessible to all, Dimensionally Transcendental though it may be.

In response to Farid's current question, Missy wrinkled her nose. "Trans? What? No. That implies surgery. Or at least some kind of identity crisis. I'm just me. Still me, always me." With that, she giggled daintily.

"Well, _that's_ always a joy," the Doctor sighed. After a beat, he asked, "So, Missy, I just have to ask. Why in the name of sanity would you want to derail a fixed point? Certainly it couldn't be out of compassion for star-crossed lovers and their plight."

"Come on, now, Doctor," she mock-scolded. "I was quite attached to lovely Mrs. Handler, and her boff-buddy, Postman McPhail. I thought they deserved another go at life."

"Oh, now, that's a whole load of rubbish," Martha muttered.

"Yeah, probably," Missy agreed. "But the truth of it is so much less interesting."

"What _is_ the truth of it?" Martha asked, harshly. "You nearly destroyed my planet. Again!"

"Yeah. How 'bout that," Missy sang. "Honestly, Martha Jones, if you're going to ask and answer your own questions, then what do you need me for?"

"Ugh," Martha grunted. "You're a piece of work." She sat back in her chair and pouted with her arms crossed over her chest.

"I'm _evil,_ darling," Missy reminded her, with a pat on the hand. "Or had you somehow forgotten?"

"Nope, not for a second," Martha spat.

"So," the Doctor interjected, looking about, at the impossibly large interior of the Aria Resort and Hotel. "You made a deal with Curtis Katossian, did you? Right clever, that."

"Stop with the righteous indignation routine," said Missy. "You're just Mr. Bitter Bottom because you didn't think of it first."

"Dimensionally Transcendental hotel resorts and casinos, dotted all over Las Vegas," the Doctor mused. "I do have to admit, it would be a tempting thing to try, if I were wired that way."

"You _are_ wired that way! I fail to understand why you don't just embrace it!" Missy protested.

"So, as Katossian begins to form his corporation, you make him an offer he can't refuse?"

"Katossian was actually a lot cleverer than anyone gave him credit for," Missy explained, switching her tone for the moment. For once, she didn't sound über-cheeky. " _He_ came looking for _me_."

"What? That can't be right, that's insane."

Missy shrugged. "The man was well-connected – he and that son-in-law of his. He set his sights on refurbishing the Las Vegas strip, in the late 1980s, and put out feelers for technological advances that no-one else knew about, anything that would make MGM casinos unique. New gaming technology, moving floors, dumb-waiters to deliver drinks... things like that. I don't think he had any idea of what could be done at the time, he just wanted something new and amazing."

"And new and amazing… that would be you?"

"I'm _old_ and amazing, dear Doctor, but that's neither here nor there," Missy lilted. "The point is, I worked at Area 51 for a while."

"You did what?" the Doctor asked, sitting forward suddenly. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Well… yeah. Duh," she answered with a chuckled. "More importantly, though, I'm clever, and extremely cheeky. I wanted to see what all the bloody fuss was about, so I assumed an identity – which I'm _very_ good at, as you know – faked some credentials, and got a job there. It was such a joke, the random, ridiculous space-junk to which these humans were ascribing such grandiose significance!"

With that, Missy burst out laughing, but no-one else did.

While she was guffawing, the waitress returned with Farid's gin and tonic, Martha's wine, the Doctor's Coke and Missy's flamboyant cocktail. Without asking if she could bring them something else or run them a tab, she slapped their bill on the table and got the hell out of there.

"Anyway," Missy said, after taking a long pull off her drink. "He knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy, and next thing you know, I've got wind that a _billionaire_ is looking for just the sort of thing that I can provide. Wheels start turning. You know me, always looking for new employment opportunities."

"So, it all comes down to money," Martha marvelled. "Even for the likes of you."

"Yeah," she practically whined. "Do you think that building an entire personal history, developing the Archangel Network and running for Prime Minister was cheap? Plus, I had to keep little Lucy living the life to which she'd become accustomed, the rich bloody princess that she was."

"How much did he give you?" the Doctor asked.

"What an impertinent question, Doctor. I should like to wash your mouth out."

"Just tell me."

Missy lowered her voice. "Ten million U.S. dollars, in 1989, each year adjusted for inflation," she told him.

"Each year?"

"Well yeah, genius. An annual fee, because someone had to _maintain_ the Dimensional Control, didn't they?"

"Er, well, someone _didn't,_ did they?" the Doctor shot back. "That's why we're here. The thing is failing. You just _quit_ on them because the money stopped coming."

Missy shrugged. "Well, what do you want from me? Katossian's dead. And he didn't have the foresight to tell his successor how _not_ to suck MGM's Las Vegas holdings into a vacuum dimension or some such. So I stopped getting paid, and that being the case, I resigned."

"So, the money just _stopped?_ " Martha asked.

"Yeah," said Missy. "When people die, they stop writing checks."

"I just can't believe you weren't on some kind of direct-deposit… plan. Or something."

"As a matter of fact, Martha, I keep an account at the bank down the street, accessible by a thirteen-digit number, so that I can remain firmly on-the-grid," Missy told her flatly. "I also pay taxes, attend church and enjoy working with children."

"All right, all right, whatever," Martha said, physically swatting at Missy's words. "The Doctor already surmised he was paying you privately. I just find it very hard to believe that _that much_ money would just casually pass to you in cash on a regular basis."

"Well, it did. More or less. He sent me a cashier's check every January and every July, to a post office box via snail mail. The man _did not_ want anyone knowing about his relationship with me!" Missy seemed to delight in this, taking another long pull from her cocktail. "Boy, that sounds dodgy, doesn't it? He knew well that the technology was extra-terrestrial, and I think he had an idea that I am as well. He paid handsomely to keep it all hushed-up, told no-one, left no paper trail,. And like all genius super-villians, I have a Swiss bank account. And also one in the First Bank of Opusseron Five, in the Forbellite Galaxy."

"Naturally," the Doctor conceded with some sarcasm. Then, "You just… what? _Stopped_ remotely calibrating the Dimensional Control? The five seconds a year it probably took you… you couldn't be bothered?"

"Oi, don't get all judgey on me!" she cried, again, making people turn and look. "How about a little credit for not just turning the damn thing off, and leaving Las Vegas lain waste?"

"Right, yeah, I'll be sending you a medal any day now. Post office box, via snail mail. _Missy, a.k.a, The Master, Greatest Hero of all Time for not taking extra steps to destroy an American City. Well, just this once, anyway."_

"Hey, I want it to be known that I was a good friend to Katossian," Missy protested. "Or at least a faithful employee-slash-contractor, or whatever I was. I didn't just put a glowing thing in his office and then bugger off to space for the next century or so. I left him my contact information. Legitimate contact info, so that he could call me if anything went wrong. And he did, a couple of times. When the Dimensional Control would go yellow, he'd call, and I'd come running. Eventually."

"Call you. Using a telephone, with a seven-hundred digit code."

"Yeah, directly to my TARDIS," Missy said. She looked at Martha. "I had one, at the time. It's since been lost. I think in the war… can't really remember…"

"Right, and when you were in possession of the Doctor's TARDIS, you had the Dimensional Contact wired into it, so Katossian could reach you there, if need be."

"That's right," Missy confirmed. She smiled, bitterly, and Martha was fairly certain she could read genuine chagrin in that expression. "Oh, I get it – damn it, I left a loose end, didn't I? You got a call from that idiot Mullen, and now here you are again, all uppity and… uppity."

"Yep," Martha explained. "Because Katossian gave his successor the Dimensional Control, the name _Mr. Varpet_ , and a wacky phone number to call if anything goes wonky. So we get this distress call, and find out (sort of) what's going on, including that Katossian never told him _why_ any of this exists."

"Or that he should pay me," Missy shrugged. "And therein lies the real problem."

"No, the real problem lies in the fact that, as usual, you're a bloody nutter," the Doctor said, sitting forward, speaking intensely, with more breath than voice. "Do you even know how dangerous this is?"

"Of course I do, darling," she said sweetly. "I live on the edge – what can I tell you?"

"Yeah, well, live on the edge all you like, but leave Las Vegas, and the rest of this planet while you're at it, out of it."

"Or?" she asked, smiling widely and hard.

The Doctor sighed. "I suppose you want to hear me tell you that I'll have to stop you."

"Erm, yeah!" Missy exclaimed. "It's so sexy when you do that!"

"Well, whatever," he said, standing up. "I've already stopped you, so sorry to disappoint. Come on, Martha."

He held out his hand to his companion, and she took it, standing up as well. For some reason, Farid also stood, though the Doctor very much doubted it was a chivalrous reflex, in response to Martha's standing. It was more of a jumpy, nervous reflex, based on the semi-terrified frown on his face, and the fact that he looked at Missy as though to ask, "What are you going to do about this?"

And then, not surprisingly, Missy got to her feet as well.

Smiling silkily, she asked the Doctor, "Wherever the two of you think you're going, you don't really believe I'm just going to stand here and let you?"

The Doctor shrugged as he and Martha began to move away from the table. "I'd say, you can't really stop us going anywhere."

"I think I can," she protested.

But the Doctor and Martha ignored her as they walked off hand-in-hand.

"You know, I think after this is over, we should just get away from this planet for a while, and take a _real_ holiday," he was saying. "No more Tahiti or the Alps or Las Vegas… no more of this _random_ rubbish. Shelang, the Royal Purple planet is lovely, and has…"

At that, he was interrupted by a familiar sound.

He stopped in his tracks. Martha looked up at him with a mixture of tedium and worry in her eyes.

They both turned.

Missy was still standing at the table, and she was brandishing her laser screwdriver, the modified tool-cum-weapon that she had used as the Master, the one that had transformed the Doctor into a wrinkled, hamster-sized shadow of himself.

She laughed. "That's right," she said. "You know what this thing can do to a Time Lord. Think what it could do to a human. Or, say, to a Dimensional Control, and by extension, nearly _all of Las Vegas."_

The Doctor's hand tightened around Martha's.

* * *

 ***whispers* You want to leave a review, don't you?**


	12. Chapter 12

**This chapter was kind of tough to write, but I think I like it. ;-)**

 **When we last saw Missy, she was threatening to do something horrible with the laser screwdriver. The Doctor was nervous, but as you can see here, he is determined not to let her hold him back...**

* * *

TWELVE

With Martha's hand held tightly in his, the Doctor turned once more, and the two of them walked defiantly away from their old adversary.

"Erm, hello?" Missy called after them, following. Farid now followed her, still trying to understand what was happening. "Did you not hear what I said?"

"I heard you," the Doctor told her.

"Don't you care?" she asked. "Don't you oh-so-nobly want to stop me from deactivating the Dimensional Control altogether?"

"You can't," he said. "You'd have to aim it, and you can't do that across this much space."

"That's quite a statement," she mocked. "And quite a gamble."

"Then do it," he commanded her, stopping, short in the doorway of the Lift Bar, almost letting her bash into him.

She held it up in his face. "Are you sure, my do-gooding friend? I mean, Doctor, think of it! With a flick of my well-manicured thumb, I could bring Las Vegas to its knees."

"All talk," he said, starting to walk briskly again. "That's what I thought."

"Las Vegas explodes," she said, breathlessly. "Mm, imagine the carnage. Oh, and also Area 51."

One of the Doctor's hearts leapt into his throat when he heard this. But he and Martha were now approaching the lobby of the Aria, and he had a mission in mind. He ploughed ahead, and tried not to let on that he was intrigued by, and terrified of what she had just said.

"What are you on about?" he asked her, trying to sound supremely annoyed.

"Didn't I mention?" she asked. "Yeah, Area 51 is Dimensionally Transcendental as well, isn't that just brilliant?"

"What do you want me to say?" he asked her, still moving forward, not looking at her. Sarcastically, he raved, " _Oh yeah, it's wonderful! So glad you're misusing Time Lord ingenuity to compress several square miles of volatile, top-secret alien tech beneath a postage stamp in the desert. Aren't you just chuffed about it Martha? I know I am!"_

Martha, of course, did not answer. Unlike him, she was unable to hide her trepidation. She was not a Time Lord, but she was wicked clever. Moreover, she had worked for UNIT. From her time on the inside, she knew that the Americans were in possession of non-terrestrial weaponry that could not be detonated by human hands, but if they were to be _accidentally_ discharged, say, by an alien-tech ripple effect, it would do more damage than several atomic bombs. This information had come from intelligence work, not from documentation within UNIT, which meant that the American division of UNIT was not in possession of these things, but some other American organisation was. She reckoned it wouldn't be unreasonable to assume that Area 51 was the organisation in question.

And so, on a whim, Missy could level Nevada. And likely, parts of California, Arizona, Utah, Wyoming, Idaho and Oregon as well.

No-one said anything for about thirty seconds as they made their way to the front entrance of the Aria. The Doctor and Martha went through it, out into the hot Nevada night, with Missy and Farid in tow.

"Doctor," Missy said, laughing. "Slow down – I'm in heels, you know."

"Now there's something I never thought I'd hear you say," the Doctor muttered.

"Where the hell are you going, anyway?"

"Oh, yes, let me tell you my plan," he said, exaggeratedly. "And give you time to work out what to do next that will aggravate me."

"Well, the space between here and Joseph Mullen's office is hardly enough time to hatch a plan, now is it?" Missy asked. "Well, for most people. But with me, you never can tell, eh, Doctor?"

The Doctor and Martha stole a glance at one another as they made their way down the cloister-like walkway that lined the driveway of the Aria. Once again, they dodged tourists left and right, were obliged to let go of each other's hands in order to avoid clotheslining people and/or tripping over luggage. They were not best pleased that Missy knew where they were headed, mostly because, it meant that she also knew _why_ they were headed there. The Doctor had already announced that he "had stopped" her, meaning that he had forged a device that would stop her. He hadn't yet fully shown Mullen how to use it, though, so they were headed back there to finish what they started.

That, and to find the TARDIS, as it was currently parked in the MGM International CEO's inner workplace.

What a weird day.

"So what were you planning on using?" Missy asked. "A conical translator?"

She was right on the money, but the Doctor and Martha just kept moving forward. Martha, Missy and Farid now had to jog to keep up with the Doctor's longer strides, which grew longer and faster now that he was feeling threatened.

"Of course you were," Missy continued. "You'd have to rig it to be idiot-friendly. That is to say, human-friendly. But, as you must know, it will be moot, because I'm still not going to let you do it. I'm going to have _so much fun_ fighting you off, though. Getting tingles just thinking about it!"

"Blah blah blah," the Doctor complained. " _Look at me, I'm so evil, and so cheeky and can change gender like an amphibian!"_

Missy laughed.

He stopped and rounded on her, as they reached the strip. "Why do you care anyway? Katossian is dead, you're not getting paid, shouldn't you just be washing your hands of the whole sordid business? Shouldn't you be moving on, and annoying me in a different part of the universe?"

She put her hands on her hips and smirked at him, one impeccably-shaped eyebrow raised. "Mullen can be blackmailed into paying, love."

"Then it's a good thing I'm in trainers, and you're in stilettos."

With that, he took off running at full-pelt, again stopping traffic and initiating rants from motorists, in the process. Martha let out an inarticulate cry as she tried to catch up. Missy did the same, but in her pencil skirt and insensible shoes, she didn't stand a chance. Farid seemed torn between running after the Doctor and helping Missy move faster.

"Don't just stand here, you dolt!" she shouted at him. "Go!"

The Doctor rounded a corner, and headed up a ramp to a moving sidewalk that went directly to the third floor. He ran, until _people_ impeded his pathway, and then, he stopped, said a curt "Pardon me," and pushed past a family of five, cooling their heels, leaning on both sides of the railing. They were too stunned to move, and both Time Lord and companion were obliged to practically step on their toes to get past them.

This happened two more times with nonplussed tourists. What they didn't realise was that Farid had decided not to bother with the tourists, and had hopped sideways over the rail, onto the concrete bridge when he'd run afoul of the family of five, and had continued running at his full pace. And when the Doctor had nearly reached the end of the moving sidewalk, Martha heard the hard thudding of footsteps behind them. Farid had hopped back onto the moving sidewalk and was coming at them.

It all happened in the space of about three seconds. She cursed as Farid passed her, practically tripping her to get to the Doctor. A second before he gave a great growl and launched himself forward at the Doctor, Martha cried, "Doctor, look out!"

There was time for the Doctor to turn slightly, as he ran, but not enough for him to find the presence of mind to move out of the way. Besides, the moving sidewalk was too narrow for that. And so, Farid's entire body came into contact with the Doctor's right side and both men hit the moving metal floor with an ungraceful crash. Tourists going both directions gasped and exclaimed. A few pulled out phones and began to snap photos and record.

She saw and heard the Doctor's head hit the striped, jagged panel beneath, and heard him groan. She called out his name and tried to get to him, but his and Farid's scrambling and pushing and kicking and scrapping put him completely out of her reach. She climbed over the railing and ran to the end, so as to get a better angle at them.

The men arrived at the end of the moving sidewalk, and to her horror, the tail of the Doctor's jacket became caught in the mechanism. A tearing sound filled their ears, along with an angry expletive from the Doctor, and the moving sidewalk stopped. By now the nearest set of tourists on the moving sidewalk was only about ten feet away.

In the Doctor's awkward position, Farid got the advantage and straddled his midsection. He began pummeling the Doctor's face repeatedly, and the Doctor had no choice but to throw his arms up and attempt to protect his head. Martha leapt over the railing, as did most of the tourists who wanted a better view. She shoved a few of them out of the way, to get back round to the fight. She threw herself at Farid and draped herself over his shoulder, tugging at his tucked-in black shirt. This took power away from his left arm, but the right arm was still coming at the Doctor's face at full force. She yanked the shirt out from behind Farid's waist band, and then threw herself back, pulling the shirttail taut over his head, hoping to disorient him just long enough to get in one good blow.

But she stumbled backwards and couldn't achieve the kick to his face that she had hoped for. Farid began yelling and cursing straight away, throwing blind punches, trying to get at her. This only lasted a few seconds, however, before he began trying to disentangle from his own shirt. The Doctor took the opportunity, and with a heave of great strength, he threw his legs up over his head, as if to do a backward roll, and Farid went tumbling out onto the concrete. Tourists gasped, once again. Some laughed, many took more pictures.

Martha knelt to help the Doctor pull his arms out of his sleeves, so as to be free of his suit jacket, caught in the jammed machine.

Though it seemed to Martha that Farid's job had been to stop and/or slow them down, which he had done, he appeared to have tunnel vision. He wanted a fight. He grabbed Martha from behind, by the throat forcing her to her feet, away from the Doctor. At seeing him now manhandling a woman, a couple of the men in the crowd had stepped forward to try and help, but Farid didn't hold onto Martha for long – he just threw her to the concrete floor, to get her out of his way. Those same men tried to help her up, but she refused them, recovering just fine on her own. They made a half-hearted move to advance once again on Farid, but Martha stopped them.

"No, don't make it worse," she instructed them, tersely.

The Doctor was now just now getting free of his jacket, and standing up.

Martha noted that as he discarded the garment, tangled though it was, the sonic screwdriver's outline could be seen through the fabric covering the breast pocket. Martha knelt and rescued the device. While she was at it, she checked for psychic paper, but didn't find it. He hoped it was in the Doctor's trouser pocket, and not lost on the streets of Las Vegas someplace.

Farid was now in attack-stance, between the Doctor and a side-entrance to the Bellagio.

"Get out of my way, Farid," the Doctor warned.

"Or what?"

The Doctor shrugged. "Or that thing you and Missy did… you'll pay for it, just like I will."

The Doctor was clearly trying to be cryptic, and let the spectators think that this was just some sort of personal punch-up between two guys. Martha thought this wise.

Briefly, she wondered what she would do if Farid attacked the Doctor again. This time, she wouldn't have the advantage of the two of them being hemmed into a tight space to work with… she was in excellent shape, of course, and trained in _some_ hand-to-hand techniques, but so, clearly, was Farid. With him, she didn't have a prayer. And if she got between them, the Doctor would hold back, which would help no-one. So, she'd have to get clever. She looked at the sonic screwdriver in her hand, and reckoned that when Missy turned up, she'd have to use the reverb from both sonic devices, which would give them (at least Farid) no choice other than to back off.

But, come to that, where _was_ Missy? Stilettos or no, shouldn't she have caught up by now?

But even looking back down the ramp, there was no sign of her.

"Damn it!" she spat.

She reckoned the Doctor could handle himself and Farid. She went through the doors leading to the third floor of the Bellagio and ran for Mullen's office.

She was there in less than thirty seconds, rushing through the door, calling Mullen's name…

…but she was too late.

"Martha, who is this?" asked Mullen, with a bit of panic in his voice.

"Aw, bless," said Missy, shaking her laser screwdriver daintily.

"This is Varpet," said Martha, sighing.

"Excuse me?"

Missy laughed.

"Long story," Martha told him. "Really, _really_ long."

"Well, Joseph, dear, we don't have a lot of time, now do we?" Missy said. "So, long story short…"

With that, she aimed her screwdriver at the Dimensional Control, and the light went out.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! (Reviews are love.)**


	13. Chapter 13

**And now begins the somewhat ugly business of setting up the climax. Thanks for reading! Stay with me! :-)**

 **Also, Larry Fortis is coming back!**

* * *

THIRTEEN

"So where are the boys?" asked Missy, one hand casually on her hip.

"Having a punch-up outside," Martha answered. "But I expect you already knew that."

Missy sighed. "Yeah. I am sorry I had to miss that – our two boys, rolling around on the concrete, all grunty and sweaty. Actually, when it came to subduing the Doctor, I quite fancied the idea of doing that myself. But alas, though he is quite the dish, he lacks a sense of humour. Pity. I just don't think he'd find it as much fun as I would, and well, in _this_ body I wouldn't stand a chance…"

"Ugh," Martha groaned. "Shut up, would you? You know, I'd never thought I'd say this to anyone, but… I think you talk more than the Doctor!"

"Mm," Missy agreed. "That _is_ a feat."

"Mullen, are you okay?" Martha asked, switching her attention to the shell-shocked CEO standing nearby.

"She switched off the… _thing_!" he replied, panic in his voice.

"Yeah, she did," Martha said.

"What about… what about…?

Missy laughed at the stuttering CEO.

"The Doctor will sort it out, okay, Mullen? Don't worry," Martha lulled.

Missy laughed even harder. "You companionettes kill me, you know that? _The Doctor will sort it out! The Doctor will fix everything! The Doctor is God!_ It's like a bloody cult!"

"Yeah, well, you saw first-hand what the _cult_ of the Doctor can do, didn't you? What was the phrase you used? Brought a Time Lord to his knees?"

"Okay, fair enough," Missy said lightly. "But it's a truly stupid woman who doesn't learn from her mistakes, especially mistakes she made while she was a man. And so, rest assured, I will not make the same ones again."

"You mean, binding the whole human race together psychically, and then _not_ expecting the Doctor to use that against you? Well, good, because as mistakes go, that was a doozie," Martha mocked.

Missy came back with venom in her voice. "I mean, letting _you_ Martha Jones, out of my sight."

She clenched her teeth and advanced on Martha, having a tight grip on Martha's arm before the latter even knew it.

Martha realised in that moment that back when the Master was lording over the human race, as the Doctor had pointed out earlier, she didn't spend that much time with him. His interaction with her was always in the interest of grandstanding, to show that little Martha Jones couldn't get the better of him, try as she might. And so, he had never actually laid hands on her. (Though, to hear Tish tell it, the women aboard the Valiant were quite so lucky that year.)

But things had changed. Missy was plenty big on grandstanding, but not on the massive scale, like before. And she had changed bodies. She had a feminine form now, one that she clearly had figured out how to use to her advantage. In her case, she might be compensating for the physical strength she was now lacking. She had never had to cope with being smaller, weaker, and sometimes undervalued for no good reason. So now, she used lipstick and innuendo to disarm. And, when it came to a physical fight, she used Farid.

And all at once, Martha realised she could recoil from Missy, and then some. And so she did. She gave a great shove, seeing the woman stumble backwards into a wall. She smiled then, reckoning that in this form, the Doctor would never come at his old adversary with physical force, but Martha sure as hell could.

"Brilliant idea," the Doctor said then, striding in, holding his tattered jacket in his right hand. He was responding to the last thing Missy said, and smirking over the fact that she had been rebuked. "As a matter of fact, I'm not that keen myself on letting Martha out of my sight – call me a romantic. And so, here I am. How are you, love?"

Martha chuckled. "Fine, except the Dimensional Control got switched off. Give you three guesses how. Where's Farid?"

"Erm… outside. He's… well, unconscious, but only a little bit."

Martha laughed out loud. "Now I _am_ sorry I missed _that_!"

"Well, I'm sure it's on Youtube by now," he said. "Key words _Bellagio_ , and _elbow to the head_. Mullen! How's it going, mate?"

"The thing's been turned off!"

"I see that," he said. "Missy? All right?"

"Right as rain," she said, recovering from being shoved into the wall. "Unless you've concussed my boy toy."

"Aw, Missy," said the Doctor, in mock-sympathy. "Do you really think it makes that much difference?"

"Hm," she sniffed.

"Well, Mr. Mullen, I'm sorry to report that my plan A for dealing with the Dimensional Control… well, that went kerplooey, I'm guessing, courtesy of Missy's laser screwdriver," the Doctor said, approaching Mullen, and throwing an arm around his shoulders.

"Laser?" asked the CEO.

"Fortunately," said the Doctor. "There's a plan B."

"There is?"

"Oh, yes."

"There's always a plan B," Martha chirped. "Everything is going to be fine."

" _There's always a plan B,_ " Missy mocked with a high-pitched voice.

"Yeah, there is," the Doctor said, moving forward now. "Mullen, we'll let you know when things are sorted. Missy, get in the TARDIS."

"So I can be by your side while you foil me?" she asked, breathlessly. "Oh, Doctor, that's so… intimate. Are we going to let Martha watch?"

"Seriously?" Martha asked sardonically, before grabbing Missy by the collar of her tailored jacket and hauling her through the door of the police box.

Missy walked up the ramp in a huff, followed by Martha and then the Doctor.

"Does Area 51 have some sort of morphic perimeter-formation technology? I dunno, like with swarms of nano-reader-bots?" the Doctor asked, setting a few gadgets on the console.

When no answer came, he looked up at Missy, who was looking back at him with an expression that seemed to ask, _you're joking, right?_

"Okay, I'll take your pissed-off silence as tacit assent," he said. "Because the TARDIS could map out a perimeter if she had the time, but she kind of doesn't, thanks to you."

"What are you talking about?" Martha asked, simply curious as to what his plan was.

"We need to set an intangible, but slightly tangible, perimeter."

"Intangible, but slightly tangible."

"Yeah. It's a… space thing. Anyway, a perimeter."

"Around the Bellagio?"

"Around Las Vegas," he told her. "Preferably with about a ten-mile margin all the way round it, into the desert."

"Oh. Yikes."

"And for the TARDIS to do what I want, it would take days. We have, oh, I'd say about twelve hours before all hell breaks loose. Well, until infinite interiors break loose."

"You've got a time machine, Doctor," Missy lilted. "Just build a giant glass dome and drop it over the whole city. Better yet, why don't you go back and stop Curtis Katossian from ever meeting me! Or from ever being born! Oh, now, _there's_ the solution."

The Doctor ignored his annoying opponent. "Because," he continued, addressing Martha. "The technology I'm planning to use is… well, sort of sentient. It has the ability to think and adjust and expand. Thank heaven. So I'll need a morphic perimeter, preferably a semi-adherent one, that is calibrated to the specific topography of this part of Nevada. That's what would take the TARDIS forever to do – all those rocks, all that soft sand. Ugh, I'm exhausted just thinking about it. Plus, we'll need the TARDIS after that to actually build enormous Dimensional Dams, which will sap a hell of a lot of her energy, so…"

"So we need Area 51," Martha said.

"Yeah, but we have to make it worth our while, because I really don't fancy going in there if all we're going to get is captured and dissected."

Martha pulled her phone from her pocket and began to dial.

"Who are you calling?"

"Larry Fortis," she said, referring to her former colleague at UNIT. Dr. Fortis was a brilliant physicist, an enthusiastic "fan" of the Doctor's, and as it happened, her sister Tish's current boyfriend.

Missy feigned boredom and sauntered over to a railing and leaned against it, looking utterly _finished_ with the whole sordid business.

"Martha Jones!" the physicist called into the phone when he answered. "Back for more!"

"Yeah, hi, Larry," she said. "Have you missed us?"

"Every moment I'm not with you, I miss you," he replied, whimsically. "What are you two up to?"

"We need your help," she said.

"Okay. What do you want me to do?"

"We need information on Area 51."

"Come again?"

"Area 51, you know, the top-secret military base in Nevada?"

"Yeah, I know what Area 51 is, but… why do you need info? And why do you think I'd have it?"

"UNIT keep close tabs on them," Martha told him. "I ran across clandestine lists of Area 51 archives more than once when I worked with UNIT. Actually, within the taskforce, it wasn't all that clandestine. I wouldn't be surprised, in fact, if they pop up, if you get just a little bit creative with the search engine."

"Okay, well, I'm at your sister's flat," he said. "Can it wait until later?"

"What is it, eight a.m. there?" Martha asked.

"Martha, your phone calls 2008, you're in 2016. Time zones aren't going to line up," the Doctor reminded her.

"Oh, right," she said to Larry. "Well, what's the date?"

"4th October, 2008," Larry said. "It's Saturday. 11:14 a.m."

"Shouldn't we be calling him in 2016?" she said to the man at the controls.

The Doctor answered, "Your phone is on its own timeline, Martha. It calls 2008. And I don't want to leave this time period – I don't trust it. It's volatile. I mean, 2016 was volatile even _before_ Victor/Victoria over there switched off the remote control to relative dimensions in a large chunk of the American southwest, but now? I'm not going anywhere."

"You guys are in 2016? That's wicked!" Larry commented through the phone. "What's it like?"

"It's only eight years on, from where you are! So, quite similar, only with more iPhones. And, well, we're in Las Vegas, so it's shiny and hot," Martha said.

"And Britain's just left the E.U.," the Doctor muttered.

"What?" Martha asked.

"Hm?" he said, feigning ignorance.

"Are you kidding me?" she shouted.

He chuckled. "That's nothing. You should see what the Americans are about to do."

"Wait, wha… actually, you know what? I don't want to know," she said. She took a quick, deep breath and turned her attention back to the phone. "Larry, I'm sorry to make you go in to work on a week-end, but is there any way you could do this now?"

Larry Fortis sighed. "Let me guess: time-sensitive thing that will destroy the universe if I don't get a shift on."

"Well, not the universe, just a large, really noticeable chunk of America," Martha said.

"What if the inventory of Area 51 is different in 2016, than in 2008?"

Martha repeated the question to the Doctor.

"We'll have to take that chance," said the Doctor. "Besides, if he says they have something on 2008, it's highly unlikely they won't still have it in 2016. They'll have acquired new things, but I doubt they'll have chosen to jettison anything."

"Okay, I'll go to the Tower now," he said. "Can I ring you back at this number in half an hour?"

"Yes," Martha said. "Thank you. And we're sorry."

* * *

Over the next thirty minutes, Missy speculated over how the Doctor could fix the TARDIS' chameleon circuit, and he irritatedly told her that he had tried everything a long time ago, and nothing had worked. Then, she mocked his shoes, asked a lot of impertinent questions about his and Martha's relationship, told them stuff they didn't want to know about Farid, flirted with the Doctor a bit more, and then tried to dash down the hall and disappear into the TARDIS. Martha got ahead of her and stopped her with another incredibly satisfying shove. With that, the Doctor put a preventative pass field over the doorway leading to the rest of the vessel, and locked the control with his genetic signature.

"Spoilsport," Missy said, pouting, and once again, leaning on a railing, acting bored. She sighed, and looked about the console, the Doctor suspected, for something else she could try. Then she asked, "Speaking of genetic signatures, where's the hand-in-jar? That used to be one of the most interesting things about you: you kept your own severed hand in a jar. Not even I've ever done anything _that_ weird."

"It's gone," the Doctor said. "Actually, it's in a parallel world now. Long story."

"Mm," she sighed.

True to his word, at the end of that half-hour period, Larry Fortis rang back. The Doctor plugged Martha's phone into the console, so that they could all speak to and hear him.

"Okay, I'm here in the lab. My computer's booting up – just give me a minute," he sighed. Once he was in, he said, "So, I'll just start searching for Area 51, shall I?"

"It might not show up specifically as Area 51," she said. "It might be a bigger leap than that. Just… American holdings in alien technology, maybe?"

Larry did some muttering, and they could hear the sound of computer keys clicking. He seemed to try several things, and then wondered aloud whether he'd have an easier time if he were in the UNIT office in New York. Then, he said, "Okay, I think I've found something, but… I have no idea what any of it means. What are you looking for, Doctor?"

The Doctor replied, "Morphic frontiering technology, and perhaps something like nano-reader-bots."

"Would something like that pop up as-is, or do I need a Ph.D. in extraterrestrial engineering to be able to spot it?" Larry wondered.

"Erm…" the Doctor said, thinking. Martha could see that he felt a bit stuck. "Tell you what, Larry. Which terminal are you using?"

"I'm at my work station in the lab," he responded.

The Doctor said, "Sever the secure connection, do you know how to do that? It would be clandestine – UNIT wouldn't make it easy for…"

"I know how to do it," Larry interrupted, gleefully. "Just a minute."

Martha and the Doctor looked at each other.

"Impressive," Missy sang.

"Who's that?" asked Fortis.

"No-one," the Doctor said. "Have you opened it up yet?"

"One more minute…" then after about thirty seconds, he announced, "There, it's done. Now what?"

"Now," the Doctor said, stationing himself at his console computer. "I hack."

His fingers flew over the keys. Scary, encrypted text flew across the screen like an electronic banner. Then, letters began to morph into other letters, and then the screen came alive with perfectly readable, understandable text, that seemed to be a database.

" _Voilà,_ " exclaimed the Doctor. "Now, close up the connection again, Larry. Don't leave it vulnerable to _actual_ hackers."

"I'm on it," Larry answered.

"Wow," Martha said, marvelling at the info on the screen. "That's amazing, considering the Tower is TARDIS-proof."

"I routed it through someone's laptop," he said. "Someone, presumably, sitting on the embankment near the Tower, just saw their screen go all wonky, then lost connection."

"So, if UNIT realise that there's been a hack, they'll pinpoint the IP address to that laptop and arrest that person."

"Yeah, sorry."

"Doctor," she scolded.

"Big picture, Martha," he muttered, scrolling through the list of Area 51 holdings on the screen. Then he said, pointing at the info, "There. There it is. Cambiotac device."

"And that's the thing that will put a huge perimeter around Las Vegas?" Martha asked.

"Yeah, it's perfect," he said. "With this thing, we won't even need the nano-readers. That is, if we can get our hands on it."

"That's a big _if_ ," she commented.

"You're going to need me," Larry told them.

"Why, exactly?" Martha asked.

"Because, Doctor," Larry said, almost scoldingly. "You can't be thinking of just striding in there, using your psychic paper to fake some kind of credential."

"Mm," the Doctor growled.

"They'd have to have technology that will flag you as alien the moment you set foot in there."

"Nah!" said Missy. "I worked there for years, and the imbeciles never pegged me!"

"In the 1970's," the Doctor said, scrolling through more files on his screen. "Who knows what they've got now? Even _human_ technology might have drummed up something at this point that would measure heart rate remotely. If that happens, I'm kind of buggered. So are you."

"You're just being paranoid. I think it would be fine if you just walked in there, all over-confident."

"Why don't _you_ do it?" Martha asked her.

"I'm a woman, dear," she answered. "As you must know, Dr. Jones, we have to work twice as hard to accomplish the same bloody thing."

"Right. And you know that Larry's right, and there _has_ to be something in there that would mark either one of you as alien, on-the-spot," Martha sneered.

"And Martha," Larry continued. "It wouldn't be unreasonable to think that they have, as UNIT does, a large file on the Doctor himself, and also a list of known associates, with photos. Especially since you worked for UNIT, you'd be recognised if you tried to get in there under false pretences. You would be, more than likely, detained and interrogated."

Martha and the Doctor looked at each other with exhaustion.

"What do you think?" she asked him.

"I think he's right."

"I also think, Doctor, that Area 51 would have some type of safeguard against your psychic paper," Larry added. "Then again, they might not. But considering what is at stake, do you really want to risk it?"

"Las Vegas," the Doctor muttered.

"Your life!" Larry shouted back. "I can show my UNIT badge. It doesn't expire. Assuming I don't get the sack in the next eight years (again), it should still be good. Although, if I keep working with you two, they'll most definitely send me packing."

He said that last part with a bit of whimsy, which was perhaps true, but also showed that he didn't mind.

"Okay, okay, I get it, we need you," the Doctor spat.

"I thought you didn't want to leave this time period," Martha said.

"Can you think of a better option?" he wondered.

Martha looked at Missy. "Lift up your sleeve."

* * *

 ***psst* Reviews make me happy! *pass it on***

 **:-D**


	14. Chapter 14

**Friends, I don't know why the new-chapter notifications have not been working, but I'm doing my best to keep everyone informed! Thanks for hanging in there with me!**

 **When we left off, the Doctor and Martha were enlisting the help of Larry Fortis of UNIT, whom they all reckon can get into Area 51 a lot more easily than the Doctor or his "known associate." At least, without getting dissected. Trouble is, the version of Larry that they need is in 2008, they are in 2016, and the Doctor is extremely reluctant to take the TARDIS away from the time and place where she currently is, because of the instability of the situation.**

 **What now follows is some quality time with the Tenth Doctor and Missy. This was fun to write (oh, so fun!) so I hope it makes you smile! Keep in mind, Missy is kinda evil, and new to the feminine persuasion.**

 **And away we go!**

* * *

FOURTEEN

Annoyingly, they rather needed Larry Fortis.

"I thought you didn't want to leave this time period," Martha said to the Doctor.

"Can you think of a better option?" he wondered.

Martha looked at Missy. "Lift up your sleeve."

Missy sighed heavily, rolled her eyes, and lifted the sleeve that _didn't_ have a vortex manipulator underneath it.

"Other one," Martha ordered.

Missy reluctantly revealed the device on her left wrist, knowing she had no choice. She was in the lair of the enemy now, as she saw it. And Martha Jones had shown that she had no trouble showing a bit of physical force. Actually, Missy sort of respected her for that, but there would be no way she'd let on. That was a bit of personality that had not existed when she'd been male, but being on the feminine side of things had given her a decidedly different take on violence, and physical prowess.

The Doctor crossed the console room and grabbed Missy's hand, turning it palm-side up. He unbuckled the leather strap and took the vortex manipulator from her.

He searched for the sonic, but realised he didn't have it. Martha located it in her own pocket, as she had picked it up during his scuffle with Farid.

Some time had gone by without anyone saying anything particularly discernible, and Larry Fortis was still on the open comm.

"Guys, what's happening?" he asked.

"I'm sending Martha to get you," the Doctor answered. "Meet her outside the Tower at Traitor's Gate at 1:00."

"You're sending her in the TARDIS?"

"Not exactly. Just be ready, okay?" the Doctor instructed.

Fortis was silent for a long moment, then he said. "Oh. Vortex manipulator. Will it hurt?"

"Definitely," Martha told him, remembering. "But you'll survive."

"Ugh. Okay. Over and out," Fortis said, with mock gusto, before cutting the line.

The Doctor approached the console with the sonic screwdriver and the vortex manipulator. He plugged both devices into the TARDIS' machinery, did some adjustments on the computer keyboard, and then handed the wristband to his companion.

"Are you going to be okay with her?" Martha asked him, nodding toward Missy.

"Sure, yeah," he answered lightly. "We'll just play shuffleboard or something until you get back."

"Okay," she said.

"But don't dawdle."

"Wouldn't dream of it," she assured him.

"I programmed that thing to bring you to London on the day in question. That's the best I can do," he said. "Aiming one of these things within a few miles or a couple of hours is practically impossible without the Time Agents' original equipment."

"It's fine, as long as it's the right day," she said. "I know how to get to the Tower."

"Do you have your Oyster card on you? Just in case you have to take the Tube?"

"No," she said, patting her pockets. "Haven't needed it in a while."

He pulled the psychic paper from his pocket and gave it to her.

"Now, when it's time to come back, all you have to do is hit this button," he explained. "I've just programmed it to home in on the TARDIS, wherever it is, in real time, starting now. So, if you dawdle, you'll make us wait, and that is _not_ a good thing. Not for me, not for Missy, not for half of the U.S."

"Quit saying _dawdle,_ " Martha scolded. "I'm not going to _dawdle."_ She put the device on her wrist.

"You need to be _touching_ Larry in order for him to travel with you. More specifically, you need to have a bloody tight grip on him, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"And… it's going to be a rough journey. Two rough journeys."

"I know. I remember."

"Okay," he said, sighing. She put her fingers on the activation button, and suddenly he shouted, "Wait!"

"What?" she asked with a frown.

He approached her, took her by the jaw with both hands and kissed her.

"See?" Missy sang, with a big, loud clap. "Now, _that's_ how you do it! Last time, what did you do? Whisper a bunch of semi-insane instructions in her ear, and let her push the button without a good snog? Good to know you've learned a bit, Doctor."

The Doctor pulled away and took a step back. "Thank you. And, think of me," he said lightly. "Because at least you get to leave, and not have to listen to _her_ for the next hour."

"Right. Perspective," Martha said. "Bye." With that, she pushed the button and embarked on a body-crushing, if practically instantaneous, capsule-less journey through the time vortex.

* * *

The Doctor and Missy spent three hours in the console room, while she genuinely seemed to try to help him fix the chameleon circuit. He let her, because it was something to pass the time. And when was the next time he'd have another Time Lord mind on-hand for _any_ sort of collaborative effort?

Although, eventually, she put her fists on her hips and said, "I think your darling TARDIS is just being _stubborn_. I think she likes this clunky old police box shape."

"I think so too," the Doctor said, getting to his feet. "I'm telling you, I tried to fix it a number of times back in the day, and came to the same conclusion myself."

"Or maybe she's just resisting me."

"Also possible. Can you blame her?" he asked.

"Suppose not," Missy admitted with a sigh.

The two of them were silent for a moment, then he asked, "Hungry?"

"Of course. What time is it?"

"After one in the morning," he said. "Martha's been gone three hours."

Missy sighed with a smile. "Aw, isn't it nice? Like old times. You and me in a confined space, while Martha Jones goes out and does the dirty work."

"Yeah, bloody brilliant. So, do you want a sandwich or not?"

She shrugged. "Sure."

He held out his hand. "Laser."

Reluctantly, she handed over her laser screwdriver, and the Doctor pocketed it. The Doctor then set the TARDIS' front doors for his own genetic code, so only _he_ could open it, at least until further notice. Then he took her hand, and said, "Come on," so as to keep her safely nearby while they made their walk toward the kitchen. He was fully prepared for her to make a loaded comment about him holding her hand, but she did not. He decided that her silence on the matter was actually _more_ awkward, though, as he deactivated the shield he'd put up between the console room and the rest of the TARDIS, and led her down the corridors to the kitchen.

Missy sat down at the breakfast bar and watched, while the Doctor concocted two sandwiches. He poured two glasses of Absullian Lemonade, and the two of them sat side-by-side and ate in silence for a while.

"Did you actually drink any of that ridiculous cocktail you ordered?" he wondered, after several minutes.

"No," she sighed. "Probably best that way. In this body, I can't hold my alcohol like I used to."

He chuckled. "You don't like the new form, do you?"

"I'm adapting," she said. "At first, I was pissed off at being smaller, weaker, softer, _constantly_ underestimated. But I'm learning to use what I have. I finally understand why women are the way they are."

"Compensating? Trying to be heard?"

Missy nodded. "Yeah," she said. "I mean, all that coquettish nonsense they pull? It just greases the wheels. And it can be like insurance. When you haven't got your own brute strength to rely on if you get in a bind, then you have to fall back on other things. Like distracting and endearing people with a cracking arse, and working it, in stilettos. And mascara and flirting…"

"You're doing a fantastic job of it, for whatever that's worth," the Doctor muttered.

"Thanks," she said flatly.

"Fantastic, if a bit transparent."

"It's _always_ transparent, isn't it? With all of them. Us. All us girls."

"Not always," he shrugged. "Sometimes it's transparent, sometimes it's bloody inscrutable. Sometimes, it's... I dunno, actually sincere?"

She took a hearty pull off her lemonade, then as she set it down, she said, "I suppose you're right. I'd bet there are plenty of times, especially for you, now, in this life, in this time, when the eyelash-bat is totally kosher. Well, except for the fact that it's a euphemism."

"A euphemism? For what?"

"For what?" she asked. "For _come fuck me,_ that's what."

He frowned at her, and she batted her eyelashes. "Missy."

"Quit acting like you don't know it," Missy commanded, rolling her eyes. "I'm agreeing with you, you nimrod. And telling you, as a free service, it's a _come fuck me_ thing, more often than you probably realise."

"Maybe. Wait, why are we even discussing this?"

"Maybe?" she asked with a boisterous laugh. "Maybe? Oh, Doctor, you're too much."

"I'm glad you think so," he said, evenly.

"You lived too long in frumpy bodies with poor fashion-sense."

"Thanks."

She looked him over very carefully, to which he was not oblivious. She contemplated him fairly seriously, then said, "But you're not interested in the ones that bat their eyelashes, are you?"

"Not as a rule, no," he said.

"No, of course not. Well," Missy said with a sigh. "Actually, they're not the ones I'm talking about. When I said I understood them, I didn't mean the _come_ _fuck me_ type. I was discussing the ones like me, who do it to get ahead. To get what they want, and I don't mean _laid_ or married or what-have-you."

"Yeah, I know what you meant."

"Of course, I've had some time to mull it over since becoming part of the sisterhood. And I think a lot of women do it in hopes that someday, they won't have to. Either society will evolve, or someday they themselves will achieve a position of power, of authority, of respect, so as not to be immediately underestimated or objectified. I, on the other hand, will never stand still long enough for that to happen, long enough to cultivate a more formidable reputation anywhere. And so, flaunt my assets I must. It simplifies things."

"Erm, you might be right, but… you know, not all women do that. The coquettish nonsense, as you called it."

"You're right, of course," she conceded. "Like Martha. Martha doesn't behave that way, though, as you've noticed, she _could_. She's got the looks for it."

"Yes, she does."

"She could manipulate the life out of every man around her if she so chose," Missy said. "But she doesn't. Does she?"

"Nope. Not unless there's absolutely no other option." He was thinking of a time when Martha used some of her feminine wiles to distract a bank executive while she sabotaged his computer. But at that time, both he and Martha had gone a bit rogue, and neither one of them were behaving with their normal faculties intact. Though, there was, of course, no way he would ever reveal to Missy that he had turned "evil" for a bit.

"Because she's too good for that," Missy mused.

"She's definitely too good for that," he agreed. "Too clever, too self-realised, too nice, too… everything."

"Or, maybe it's just that she's been a girl her whole life, and learned how to live in that body from birth," Missy pointed out, with just a hint of bitterness.

"Maybe," the Doctor commented, impassively.

"Me? I had to work it out on the fly. My old tricks weren't doing the job, and I had a revelation. _Ah-ha, the womanly tactic, the manner of manipulation that is as old as time,"_ she said.

"I see."

She turned and looked at him darkly, sharply. "You see? What is that supposed to mean? You think I'm just making excuses for acting like a tart, don't you?"

"Nope. I wouldn't presume," he assured her, before taking a large bite.

"Because you don't choose to spend your time with women who try that shit, you think it's beneath us as Time Lords?" she asked, with a touch of venom in her voice. Then she corrected, "And Ladies."

"I didn't say that," he said, chewing.

"So what? You just think, at the root of it all, I'm simply unhinged, bat-guano barmy, plus a little bit evil, and I'll do whatever I need to, in order to meet my madcap agenda? Male, female, whatever, and my actions shouldn't really be accounted for as characteristic of any gender?" By now, she was firing words rapidly and loudly. Angrily.

"Your words, not mine," he said.

"That's rich!"

"Yeah, but it seems like you've thought an awful lot about it."

"Fuck you," she spat.

"Mm," he muttered. "Cheers." And he knocked his lemonade glass lightly against hers, and drank.

And for another few minutes, they just ate without speaking.

This time, it was Missy who broke the silence.

"So, Martha isn't the batting-her-eyes type," she said, having now tempered her tone. "But I've got to tell you, mate, back then, the last time, in Utopia and on the Valiant, she was giving off some mighty strong vibes, Doctor. Professor Yana could see it, even. She didn't throw herself at you, but there was something there, something in her eyes…"

"It's called _love_ , Missy."

"How did she do that?"

"What do you mean, how did she do it? She did it by being in love! By bothering to love. She didn't _perform_ it consciously, it wasn't a calculated move," the Doctor told her. "It's not something you could replicate for your own gain, in spite of whatever you've managed to cultivate with Farid."

" _Cultivate_ and _Farid_ ," she said, and chuckled. "Those are two words that don't belong in the same sentence."

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. He's everything I need (well, basically, anyway), and _cultivated_ is not something I need. He's good at following directions, he's _very_ good with his fists, and _fantastic_ between the sheets. Though you did manage to best him in at least one of those areas, which, I must admit, has my interest piqued. But I digress. No, Doctor, there's no _cultivating_ with Farid. I'm not like you."

"Aren't you?"

"No," she answered definitively. "In spite of your best efforts."

"All right, well… have it your way, then."

"Martha, on the other hand… she spent some time in your world, and saw something in you that she liked. Loved. Loved, and wanted."

"Yeah."

"A life she liked being a part of, a man whom she grew to cling to with her heart, and whom she wanted with her whole body, I think."

"That's love. Maybe someday…"

"Spare me," she said, cutting him off.

He just smirked.

After a pause, "All that _time_ and _love_ and _cultivation,_ after a while, it shone, every moment, on her face." Missy laughed. "Holy Mother of Rassilon, Doctor, how did you miss that? I mean, if Yana could spot it…"

"It's a long story, Missy. And too personal for the likes of you. Suffice it to say, I wouldn't _let_ myself notice."

"When did you finally pull your head out of your arse?"

"Oh, Missy, don't make me talk about this with you," he whined.

"Come, on we used to be friends! Just think of me as one of the guys. And who else are you going to talk to? Captain Jack?" She laughed heartily at this. "By the way, FYI, he fancies you too. We'll save that particular therapy for a different day, though, shall we?"

The Doctor was silent for a while, and then he said, "Martha left me, after having had to deal with _you_. Actually, her leaving me had a lot more to do with _me_ than with _you,_ which is… just weird."

"Yeah. Pretty weird."

"And it speaks volumes about her, and about me. She could save _the Earth_ from your insanity, but couldn't save _her heart_ from mine."

"Very poetic, Doctor."

He sighed and kept talking, rather flatly, rather quickly, just to get it out. "So, she went home and got engaged. My friend Donna helped me realise how I felt about that. Then there was a big bloody battle with Daleks, Martha's fiancé couldn't take it, so they broke up, and I asked her out to dinner. Okay?"

"And the shagging, did that start straight away, or did she have to bring you a pop-up book to entice you?

"Yeah, that's enough," he said, standing up. "Are you finished with your plate?"

Missy laughed, and said, "Yes. You make a mean cheese and pickle, I must say."

He took both plates to the sink.

* * *

 **Penny for your thoughts... leave a review! Thank you for reading!**


	15. Chapter 15

**Ah, Missy. What a card.**

 **And in a not-unrelated story, our heroes are a bit, well, buggered. :-D Enjoy!**

* * *

FIFTEEN

Martha and Larry didn't appear in the console room until about three hours after the Doctor and Missy had had their sandwich break. In-between, they had played two games of chess, both ending in a stalemate.

"Sorry," Martha said to Larry as the vortex spat them out onto the floor. "Are you okay?"

He stood up, but immediately became nauseated, and bent at the waist. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"That's understandable," Martha said, with her hand on his back. "Just breathe. Think of large, wide-open spaces."

He took about thirty seconds, breathing slowly and deeply, then he stood up slowly, swallowed hard, and said, "Okay. I think I'm all right now."

Martha turned to the Doctor. "Sorry we took so long. I landed on the Blackfriar's railway crossing at five-minutes-to-seven in the morning."

The Doctor winced. "Ooh, yikes. Sorry about that."

"Meh," she said, waving away the concern. "None the worse for wear, despite the morning commute."

"Allright," said the Doctor, in a _let's-get-this-bloody-thing-underway_ sort of way. "It's Area 51 or bust."

All four occupants took a spot at the console, if for no reason other than to find something to hang onto. The Doctor threw the gears into motion, and while the TARDIS made its wheezing groan, Martha observed Larry and Missy eyeing one another.

Larry slid round and leaned in close to Martha. "Who's the creepy lady? She's looking at me like she wants to eat me."

"She might indeed," Martha answered.

"She reminds me of _Kiss of the Spider Woman,"_ he complained.

Missy, of course, heard the whole thing, and laughed.

"Well, tell me…. Larry, is it?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"Larry, you work for UNIT, don't you? Well, then I'd wager you've heard of me. I don't know how many rooms the Doctor's file takes up, but there's probably at least two whole cabinets dedicated to me." As usual, she lilted, manipulated her eyebrows, spoke with poisoned honey in her voice.

Larry looked askance at Martha, confusion all over his face.

"I'm an old, old adversary of his. Some might say, we started out as friends," she said. "The Doctor and I, we…"

"She's the Master," Martha interrupted. Then she shrugged. "Apparently Time Lords can change gender."

Martha had heard enough of Missy's voice for today, and had certainly heard enough of her taunting and her riddles and her general mucking about with everyone's heads. And, she was delighted to find that for a few unguarded seconds, Missy was actually offended over Martha's outburst, and couldn't hide it. Though she covered her tracks well, Martha had seen it, and no-one could take that away.

Larry looked at the Doctor. "Seriously?"

"It would be a bit weird if Martha were making that up, wouldn't it?" answered the Doctor.

"Well, yeah, but…"

" _Enchanté,_ " Missy sang, holding her hand out, fingers facing down, for Larry.

He pinched two of her fingertips briefly between his thumb and index finger, and then seemed almost to recoil from her.

"So, what's the plan, exactly?" asked Larry.

"Well, we're going to borrow their Cambiotac device, which will make a perimeter around Las Vegas, and its environs. We'll turn the perimeter into a Dimensional Dam, using the TARDIS. If we fly around the perimeter at a certain speed, calibrating the TARDIS' oscillating frequency to that of the lines drawn by the Cambiotac, the TARDIS will be able to insinuate itself into the perimeter, creating, in essence, a temporary aspect of itself that surrounds Las Vegas."

No one said anything for a few moments. Martha and Larry looked at the Doctor with jaws agape. Missy, entertained, looked back and forth between the three of them, barely holding in a giggle.

"Doctor, are you sure?" Martha said. "That sounds…"

"Huge. Dangerous," Larry said.

"The exertion upon the TARDIS…" Martha continued.

"…will be fairly severe," the Doctor added, finishing her thought. "But the old girl has seen worse. Once, she even got turned into a paradox machine."

Missy tutted. "Now, _who_ would do a rotten thing like that?"

"Now, Larry," said the Doctor, coming round the console, taking Larry by the shoulders. "What are you going to say when you get to the gate?"

"Wait, what's he going to do, just _walk_ up to the gate, over the desert horizon? You don't think that might seem a tad suspicious?" Martha asked.

"Good point," the Doctor said. "We'll need a car. Back to Vegas we go…" He turned toward the console, and began to lay his hands on the controls.

* * *

What no-one had seen was Missy, snagging the very brief opportunity that she had while no-one was looking, moving round the console in the opposite direction of the Doctor. While he, Martha and Larry all clustered in one spot, she was on the other side of the Time Rotor, out of view of the man in pin-stripes, setting her own coordinates.

The Doctor was clever, strong and vigilant. But every time they locked horns, sooner or later, he slipped up. He'd get lazy and make a mistake, or assume that his adversary had some good in him/her. He'd forget that he was dealing with someone just as clever, but a right sight crazier.

And so, when he announced, "Back to Vegas we go," and reached out for the controls, he actually seemed _surprised_ to find the TARDIS dematerialising around him.

"What?" he cried out, at first, with that funny, confused panic in his eyes. "Oh! No! No, no, no, no, no! Missy! No! What are you doing?" He reached out for the controls himself, but his hands went through them, as though he were a ghost.

"What's happening?" Larry asked, looking around him, like a child.

"She's leaving us behind!" Martha told him, as the gears went grinding, and the console room seemed to blink in and out of existence for about ten seconds.

"Byeeeee!" Missy chirped, waving at her foes, and disappearing into the vortex, with the Doctor's only transport.

The three of them stood still for longer than expected, and stared blankly at the spot where Missy had just been, in relative dimension. They now stood in the middle of a Nevada desert, on a mid-August morning.

"Are you _fucking_ kidding me?" Larry Fortis spat. "I mean, are you actually serious with this? What is this?"

"You've read about the Master," the Doctor said, so quietly it was almost eerie. "You shouldn't be that surprised."

"But seriously? Here? Now?" he asked, panicking a bit.

"Larry, the sun's not even completely up yet," Martha pointed out, lamely. "We're fine."

"Yeah, but we're not going to be _fine_ in an hour when it does come up, or in two hours after it's been up for a while! Or this afternoon when... oh my God! I can't believe this! I mean, what the fuck are we supposed to do now? We are _buggered,_ Doctor! Or, at least, Martha and I are. I don't know – can you survive in a desert without water, walking for days, when it's scorching hot?"

"No, I can't," the Doctor answered calmly. And with that, he began to walk.

The terrain beneath their feet was made up of whitish-grey gravel and rough sagebrush. There were gentle hills on all sides, but no signs of civilisation in sight.

"Where are we going?" Martha asked, following.

"Area 51," he answered.

"Still?"

"Yeah," he said. "It's just that now, we all have to go in, not just Larry."

"How are we going to build a Dimensional Dam without the TARDIS?" asked Martha.

"One thing at a time, Dr. Jones," walking full-steam ahead, across the desert.

Larry stumbled behind them, jogging for a few seconds to keep up. "How could you take your eyes off her, Doctor? You know she's a Time Lord… Lady… whatever. You know she's as clever as you! How could…."

"How could _you_?" the Doctor asked. "If you know so much, why weren't you being my backup?"

"What? Are you kidding? Are you really putting this on me?"

"No, of course not," the Doctor answered. "Clearly, it's my fault."

"No, it's Missy's fault. The Master. The entity that is the two of them," Martha said, uneasily. "Yeah, we took our eyes off her, but none of this rubbish would be happening if she hadn't introduced an unstable alien concept to a highly-frequented human sector, and then just _switched it off_. 'Course, she might not have done that if we hadn't antagonised her and Farid… if we'd left well-enough alone, we'd have a bit more time to come up with a plan…"

"Look," the Doctor said, rounding on them both. "Missy is just… for lack of a better word, bad. More accurately, she's mad and twisted and sadistic and ridiculously clever, and she got the jump on us. When you deal with mad, sadistic people, sometimes you don't always have the upper hand, because your adversary is chuffing bonkers, all right? They're not rational and they don't think the way othersthink, and that's pretty much what makes dealing with them a right pain in the arse… but this is what we do. Martha, you and I signed up for this. Larry, sorry, you got dragged in, but it's going to be okay. We adapt. I've been adapting for over nine-hundred years, very often, in situations that were a lot worse than this. Now stop trying to blame people other than the madwoman who currently has my TARDIS. Save your strength."

With that, again, he turned on his heel, and kept walking, with Larry feeling chastised, and Martha deep in thought.

After about ten hellish minutes walking in the crushing, dry heat, she asked, "Are you sure we're going in the right direction? I mean, you don't have your navigation instruments now."

"I can feel it. We're going in the right direction."

"A hunch?" asked Larry, almost incredulously. "Doctor, we could die out here."

"Thank you, Dr. Fortis, that hadn't occurred to me," the Doctor snapped, with biting sarcasm. After a few moments, he added, "It's not a hunch. It's more like… I can hear it."

"You can _hear_ it?" Martha asked.

"Mm," he answered. "Like a low hum. You _can't_ hear it?"

"No!" she laughed.

"It's getting louder," he reported. A pause, and then, "That place is full of alien tech and things buzzing and oscillating and transmitting, stuff that they don't even know about. _Of course_ I can hear it."

"Blimey."

"Don't you trust me?"

"Of course I do," she said, meaningfully.

Another ten minutes passed, and sure enough, over the horizon, there loomed what looked like a heavily-secured, modern-looking, United States military base.

"It just looks standard-issue military to me," Larry said, removing his glasses as sweat dripped down into his eyes.

"It _is_ standard-issue military," the Doctor muttered. When Martha and Larry looked at him strangely, he added, "Well, not _just_ standard-issue military, but it does have its standard-issue element."

As they walked, they began to notice a dot appearing, and then coming closer.

It was a Jeep, bumping over the shrubs and uneven terrain, clearly come to check them out. Two men in camouflage uniforms occupied the front seat.

"Hi there, folks," said the driver, as the vehicle came to a halt. "Hope you won't mind us asking, but what in tarnation are you three doing out here?"

Larry stepped forward, much to both the Doctor and Martha's surprise.

"I'm Dr. Lawrence Fortis of the Unified Intelligence Taskforce," he said, affably. "So glad you found us! We were hoping for a bit of interdepartmental cooperation, if you will. If you'll allow me, I'd be delighted to show you my credentials."

The driver and passenger looked at each other, then the passenger said, "You're UNIT? British UNIT?"

"Yes, sir," said Larry.

"Let's see those credentials you mentioned," said the driver, without any harshness to his tone.

While Larry reached into his pocket, the Doctor made quick notes of the men in the Jeep. The driver was an average-height, stocky white man, perhaps thirty years old, a slight hint of a southern American accent. His nametag said "Wilkinson", and the decoration upon his uniform suggested he was a Sergeant. The passenger was a tall, thin black man, the Doctor reckoned he was younger than Wilkinson, though was also a Sergeant. His name badge said "Everley." There were no weapons in-sight, but the Doctor had no doubt that both men had at least one firearm within arm's reach.

Wilkinson inspected Larry's UNIT ID, then asked, "Okay, well, now's let's circle back around to my original question: what are you doing out here?"

"That's classified, sir," Larry answered. "Sorry."

Everley piped up. "How did you even get here?"

"Classified," Larry said, clasping his hands behind his back, and staring at the ground uneasily.

Both soldiers seemed uncomfortable, and in fact, Wilkinson took off his sunglasses, and made eye contact with the Doctor and Martha in quick succession. He did not seem upset nor alarmed, however. "What about you two?" he wondered.

Again, Larry spoke for them.

"These individuals are specialised consultants who are authorised to work with UNIT in circumstances that are more difficult, or out-of-the-ordinary, than UNIT is accustomed to handling," he explained.

Both Wilkinson and Everley seemed to stiffen. Their easy demeanour all but melted away.

And in this moment, the Doctor's hearts began to race like greyhounds.

"Specialised consultants to UNIT?" asked Everley.

"Yes," Larry answered.

"For out of-the-ordinary cases?"

"Yes."

The two Americans stole a glance at one another.

Wilkinson spoke again. "And you're out here, seemingly without transport, lurking about Area 51. With your… specialised consultants?"

"Yes," Larry answered, though his voice had gone cautious.

Martha's senses were alerted to the line of questioning as well, and all she wanted to do was check the Doctor's face for worry, or take his hand for comfort. For whose comfort, she wasn't sure.

This time, when Wilkinson and Everley looked at one another, it was a long, hard, meaningful, communicative stare, at the end of which, the former said, "Let's get you three out of the path of the sun. It'll be up in half an hour. Climb in," and the latter began to throw the tarp off the vehicle's backseat.

Martha took a chance and stole a look at the Doctor's face. His expression nearly brought her to tears and panic, because it told her that he suspected exactly what she did.

These men knew exactly who he was.

* * *

 **Whoa! Hey, don't forget to leave a review! You guys are awesome!**


	16. Chapter 16

**Our heroes are adrift, as it were. No transport, about to walk into the belly of the beast, there's still the Las Vegas crisis to deal with, and freakin' Missy has the TARDIS! Holy crap, what now?**

* * *

SIXTEEN

The Doctor, Martha and Larry Fortis climbed into the backseat, and squished to fit. Both men had to practically fold in half.

Before starting up the Jeep, Wilkinson used his comm device, something that looked like a cross between an iPhone and a traditional military radio. "This is Wilkinson and Everley, heading back to The Safe. Please tell General Dyer we've got a Code One. I repeat, Code One."

The three in the backseat exchanged glances. All of them had some idea of what that meant.

"Copy that, Sergeant," said a voice.

With that, he started up the Jeep, and they began speeding along, on the bumpy terrain.

"You mentioned that you were hoping for some sort of _interdepartmental cooperation_. Shall we discuss that?" Wilkinson shouted back at them, as the Jeep barrelled toward the military base.

Once again, it was Larry who spoke up. "We were hoping to borrow a piece of equipment," he said, having to lean forward, and practically shout into the Segeant's ear, in order to be heard.

"Like what?" asked Everley, turning to face the three of them.

"A Cambiotac device," Larry said.

"A what?"

"A Cambiotac!" Larry shouted.

"What the hell is that?"

"It forms a morphic perimeter," he tried to explain. "We were hoping you'd have one calibrated for the specific topography for the environs of Las Vegas."

There was a bit of windy silence as Everley looked to Wilkinson, Wilkinson shrugged, and then Everley looked back at Fortis. Eventually, he said, "We have no freaking idea what you're saying."

"Can't we just wait until we stop?" Martha suggested.

"Yeah," Everley agreed.

Both soldiers were now facing properly forward, intermittently radio-ing, presumably back to "The Safe," as they called it, also known as Area 51. Martha pulled her phone from her pocket and showed it silently to the Doctor. She gave a mini-shrug, as her eyes seemed to ask, "how do we use this thing?"

The Doctor got the message. She was trying to suggest that they take this opportunity to contact someone…

The Doctor took the iPhone from her, and opened up her contacts list, and selected Tish's name. He sent a message that read, "We are headed into Area 51 with the Doctor, 18 August, 2016, 6:30 am. Serious, serious danger. If you don't hear back from me as of six hours from the time of this text, get in touch with Colonel Mace at UNIT and show him this message." He hit _send._

Then, he started a new text, and continued, "Larry's UNIT security code is…" and he handed it to Larry.

Larry eyed the screen, and then began to type. He finished the message, "…written on the inside of the of the dust jacket of the book you and Larry were reading together last night." And he hit _send._

All three of them knew the difficulties and possible interrogation that Tish would face if it came down to it. But they knew, ultimately, that Colonel Mace would try to give her the benefit of the doubt in order to help the Doctor and/or Martha Jones, and probably Larry Fortis, as would the Brigadier if he got involved. And UNIT had _some_ technology (and ingenuity) that might help them. They could, possibly, get hold of a vortex manipulator, and the could definitely begin planting the seeds of escape in 2008, for the Doctor, Martha and Larry in 2016…

But it was all academic for now. That was worst-case-scenario sort of stuff.

Case in point, Larry reached across and tapped the Doctor's shoulder. He mouthed something desperately.

"Wha?" the Doctor mouthed back.

"Stop. The. Jeep!" Fortis lipped.

"Why?"

With an angry finger, Larry simply indicated the steering wheel, and set his face in a steely expression of "Do it!"

The Doctor looked at Martha, who shrugged. He quickly decided to trust their friend, since he had no other immediate ideas, and they were within a hundred yards of the first set of outer gates to Area 51.

The Doctor pointed the device toward the front of the Jeep. The blue light came to life, the sonic's buzz went, and the engine powered down, stopping the vehicle.

Sergeant Wilkinson tried a few times to revive it, then cursed when he realised it wasn't going to happen.

"All right," said the Sergeant. "Let's pile out, and walk the rest of the way, I guess."

"One moment, please," said Larry.

"What?" Wilkinson said, hopping out of the Jeep. He was clearly irritated.

"I think you'll find that the engine might acquiesce to your will, if you guarantee to me the safety of my friends," said the physicist. "If not, then, we're not going anywhere with you, Jeep or no Jeep."

"Excuse me?" Wilkinson said, his voice hard-edged now.

Larry, the Doctor and Martha were not unaware of the fact that they were at a disadvantage in this situation. The trained military man was on his feet with plenty of room to move, outside the vehicle. They, on the other hand, were pressed into the backseat, practically like prisoners. No leverage, no space.

"I think you heard me," Larry said to Wilkinson, his voice on the edge of quavering. "I speak on behalf of the Unified Intelligence Taskforce, when I say that I will not cooperate with you, unless you can guarantee that these two individuals will not be harmed nor held against their will."

"I don't know what you're talking about. Why would we harm or hold them?"

Larry smiled. "Oh, Sergeant. We are men of action. Lies do not become us."

Martha laughed inwardly. Her sister's nerdy boyfriend was citing _The Princess Bride,_ one of Martha's favourite films, but one of which Tish had never understood the appeal. And what an _à propos_ moment for such a quote.

Larry continued, "It's my fault, really – I was indiscreet. I disclosed to you all too quickly that my cohorts are a special consultant to UNIT, and his companion. You realised that they – we – are out in the middle of nowhere, seemingly with no transport... you must know who this man is.

Everley made eye-contact with the Doctor, and said, "You're the Doctor." He smiled slightly, as did the Doctor himself, though the situation did not call for it at all.

"Everley, shut the hell up!" Wilkinson barked.

"Why? They know that we know!" Everley reasoned. Then he looked at Martha. "You're Dr. Martha Jones, right?"

She nodded.

"You worked for UNIT," he said. "You're on the list of the Doctor's known associates."

"Jesus, Everley, how the hell do you remember that?" Wilkinson asked.

"They don't have photos of all the Doctor's associates," Everley told him. "But because Dr. Jones worked for UNIT, they have practically an entire album…"

At that, he stopped and went silent. And a bit sheepish.

Again, the Doctor couldn't help but smile a bit, though Martha herself frowned.

"She's got a memorable face," said Everley, quietly. "That's all I'm saying."

Larry cut in once again. "When we got into the Jeep, you called back to your superiors with a Code One. Considering that Area 51's priority is extraterrestrial activity, the first-in-line protocol must be something like, _holy hockey puck! I've discovered real alien life!_ Your bosses know you're bringing in an extraterrestrial, and we have some idea of what that means. Interrogation? Imprisonment? Experiments? Examinations? Eventual dissection?"

Wilkinson lurched forward and pulled a hand-gun from underneath the driver's seat of the Jeep, and trained it on the Doctor.

"Doctor," he said. "You might want to tell your friend to stand down."

"Tell him yourself," the Doctor sighed. "I'm too terrified of your manly gun." He rested his head against his fist, and rested his elbow against the side of the Jeep. The gesture showed tedium, though the Doctor was perfectly on-alert, as usual.

"Now listen," Wilkinson said, as though he hadn't heard. "We have strict orders to bring in any alien life form we find. This, as you folks already figured out, is the first in a long list of elaborate protocols, and not for no reason. It takes precedence over any and all other considerations, period. So, there will be no deal."

"I'm very sorry to hear that," said the Doctor. "And so will most of the state be, once they know what's happening."

"Are you threatening to blackmail us, sir?"

"No," the Doctor said, annoyed. "I never do anything so pedestrian. Well, almost never. Well, rarely. Well, not what you might call _often_. Anyway… no, I'm not threatening you with blackmail. As it happens, I don't have anything on you. Yet."

The Sergeant thought about his words, but ultimately, it seemed, decided not to comment. Instead, he said, "Did you lay the whammy on my Jeep?"

"I did," the Doctor confessed.

"Fix it, or I will shoot you in the face. There is no imperative to bring you in alive," Wilkinson ordered.

"Oh, come on, now, I highly doubt that," the Doctor said. "Code One must pertain to a _live_ alien specimen – I'd wager there's another protocol for a dead one. That that you've already called it in, they'll be expecting to see the whites of my eyes, and hear the beat of my hearts.

Wilkinson did not comment, but did keep his gun aimed at the Doctor's head.

So, the Doctor continued to talk, as he is wont to do. "But even if you shoot me, depending on how good a shot you are, I might just wake up again and I won't fix your Jeep, because I'll be even more pissed off than I already am. Know why? Well, frankly, Sergeant, I don't fancy regenerating just now. I rather like my life at the mo' so…"

"Doctor," Martha said, stopping him talking.

Larry took the opening again. "Anyway! Circling back 'round to the thesis statement of this whole rigmarole, we will not be going any further unless you guarantee the safety and liberty of the Doctor and Martha Jones."

"What makes you think you have _any_ fucking say in this?" Wilkinson wondered, turning his gun on the UNIT physicist. "I've got a gun and a big, dry desert to leave you all alone in."

"We've got a national crisis to avert. If you kill us, imprison or abandon us, you'll never know what that means, and/or what you could have done to help stop it," the Doctor answered.

"Wait, what? You don't have a crisis," Everley insisted, with a laugh. Then he asked Wilkinson, "They can't have a national crisis that we don't know about, can they?"

The Doctor sighed, again, then stood up in the Jeep. He now looked down at both Sergeants, who were now standing on the driver's side of the Jeep. A gust of wind kicked up, and the Doctor looked fairly formidable against the desert's early morning sky.

"Think about it, boys," he said, his voice hard and annoyed. "Why the hell would I be out here, at Area 51, where there's certainly got to be a protocol to imprison me, if I weren't really bloody desperate? Unless something was happening that threatens us all? Have you bothered to wonder that? If you know who I am, then you'll know I'm not a moron, at the very least! And you'll know that I've saved your planet a thousand times or more so… think, yeah? Of all the trigger-happy organisations on this planet, why would I ask for help from yours? The answer is because, there's a bigger danger here, my TARDIS got nicked by the person responsible and there's no other way for me to stop it!"

"Fine," said Wilkinson. "What's so important that the great and powerful _Doctor_ would walk right into the enemy's lair?" His voice carried a hint of mocking sarcasm, and the Doctor made a note of it. He definitely felt he couldn't trust this one, though perhaps Everley still had hope…

The Doctor hopped out of the Jeep and landed on the desert floor, beside the two Sergeants.

"First, lower your weapon. Please."

Wilkinson did as the Doctor requested, and pointed the nose of the handgun at the gravel on the desert floor. Though, the Doctor, Martha and Larry all separately noted that he did not disarm the weapon, nor take his finger off the trigger.

The Doctor spoke. "Do you know what Dimensional Transcendentalism is?"

"I do," said Everley. "It's when a space is bigger on the inside than on the outside."

"What?" spat Wilkinson.

"It's like Mary Poppins' bag," said Everley. "On the outside, it's no bigger than your average duffel, right? But it can fit that wall mirror and plant, and that six-foot reading lamp."

"Exactly," said the Doctor. "Well, in real-life, that sort of technology was more or less invented and controlled by my people – the Time Lords. A while back, a rogue Time Lord made a deal with Curtis Katossian – do you know who that is?"

"Yeah," said Wilkinson. "Some bigwig casino-owner."

"Right," the Doctor confirmed. "Well, they made a deal. Upshot: a bunch of the big casinos on the Vegas Strip are Dimensionally Transcendental. They're bigger on the inside."

"Oh! No way!" Everley exclaimed with some awe.

Wilkinson gave an expression that was half-smile, half-frown, though total disbelief. He stared at the Doctor with this expression for a few moments, then looked at Everley. Eventually, he began walking in a nervous, exasperated circle, and he said, "You're shitting me."

"Again, I ask you to search the inner reaches of your reflective mind and wonder: why the hell would I do that?" the Doctor said.

"I don't know why!" Wilkinson shouted. "But do you really expect me to believe it?"

The Doctor rolled his eyes, and turned to his companions. "This is ridiculous. We'd have been better off using the Vortex Manipulator, and going back fifty years, to buy time to _build_ a bloody Cambiotac device."

Martha looked at the leather band, containing a time-travelling teleport on her wrist, and said, "Wait, can't we just use it to home in on the TARDIS, like before?"

"I set it to work only once," said the Doctor. "Setting it to work that way permanently would have severely hampered the functionality of the Vortex manipulation mechanism within, and then we wouldn't have…"

"Um, excuse me!" Wilkinson shouted. "Eye on the ball, here!"

"I was trying to get my eye on the ball, but you won't believe the ball even exists!" the Doctor shouted back. He paced out into the desert about ten steps, then came back. "You know, for a man who works at Area Fifty-fucking-one, you are being monumentally thick! You _know_ aliens exist! You _know_ alien technology can be vastly more advanced than your own – it can even seem supernatural to you. You've probably seen rubbish inside _The Safe_ that turned your skin grey when you first realised what you were seeing. Is _this_ seriously too much for you?"

Everley interjected, "Seriously, it's a thing. Dimensional Transcendentalism is rare, but the Doctor's right: it's been used by Time Lords for time immemorial, and… well, there have been rogues. I could see some strip-flush big-shot, trying to rake in more and more and more, and looking for anything, even something literally out-of-this-world, to make his casinos bigger and better than the competition. And I've always kind of wondered how the heck they cram all that stuff into such limited space. I mean, the Bellagio looks big from the outside, but not _that_ big."

Wilkinson took a few moments to brood, then he said, "Fine. What's does this mean for us?"

The Doctor explained, "In order to maintain the Dimensional Transcendentalism, there needs to be a Dimensional Control – which there was. However, last night, the same person who set it up and has been maintaining it for years, true to form, switched it off. Which means that we have, now, about five hours before at least a half-dozen casinos on the strip become dimensionally unstable."

"Oh. That can't be good," Wilkinson said flatly.

"Indeed, it can't. At that point, one of three things will happen. First possibility is that walls between dimensions will literally open up temporarily, to absorb the sudden assault on the relative space, meaning that slot machines, craps tables, chairs, cocktails and _tourists_ will start getting sucked into other dimension."

"Holy shit."

"I know, right? The second possibility is, the space would simply shrink, and, well... _squish_ everything inside. There would be a bottleneck of incredibly heavy machinery slamming against the casino walls, and a whole lot of people getting crushed between them. You're looking at quite a number of fatalities, bone-crushing, bloody ones, and that's just inside the casinos. That's not even mentioning anyone walking past, who gets hit by a flying slot machine. And given where the casinos are situated, there will be heavy, flying apparatuses all over the city, people getting crushed, general chaos ensuing. Plus, I don't know this for sure, but I wonder what would happen to the structural integrity of the twenty-story hotels above, if the casino below becomes mush.

"The third possibility is that the spaces will not contract. They will expand, to encompass the space that they actually need. This would cause _everything else_ to have to expand, or more accurately, move outward. Which would be fine if everything were on rails, but it's not. Buildings have foundations and electrical work and frameworks, all of which would go _kerplooey._ The Bellagio will ripple out on all sides, causing the Paris and the Venetian to implode and collapse, and also the Aria. But the Aria is Dimensionally Transcendental itself, so they both would have to expand in directions so as not to hit one another, nor hit the MGM Grand, the Excalibur, the Luxor, which means it would crawl quickly out into the environs of Las Vegas. The entire metropolitan area would be in danger of collapse, implosion, explosion and ruin. And, unless the rogue Time Lord who made this all possible set up some fail-safes and was very careful, then the entire state of Nevada, parts of California, Arizona, New Mexico and Utah are at some risk as well."

"Especially since Area 51 is also Dimensionally Transcendental," Martha reminded them all.

"Right," said the Doctor.

The two Sergeants looked at each other with surprise.

"And considering the sorts of things you lot have got stored there, do you really want a ripple effect to knock your Dimensional Control out of whack and make the whole of Area 51 dimensionally unstable?" the Doctor asked.

There was a long pause while Wilkinson considered him, and Everley considered the two of them. All five of them could feel their heartbeats quickening and pounding within their chests, and they felt the oppressive dry heat begin to show hints of itself, as the sun peeked over the desert hills.

* * *

 **Review, please! I... need... to... keep... going! ;-)**

 **Thank you, by the way, for reading!**


	17. Chapter 17

**Hope y'all enjoy this chapter, but here's a quick disclaimer: sorry if the science/pseudoscience babble gets a bit involved or ridiculous from here on out. As you know, all of the pieces on the board need to become part of the endgame. Well, I worked that out a while back, before I even began writing. But _getting there_ is always a challenge! Things work perfectly well in my head, but then, don't translate to actual words sometimes. Bear with me!**

 **And again... enjoy!**

* * *

SEVENTEEN

The Doctor, Martha Jones and Larry Fortis sat in a sterile conference room, waiting. The walls were lined with white dry-erase boards, with only black, and a few red, markers lying sideways on the ledges. The table was a shiny black lacquer that none of them dared touch, and the chairs in which they sat were black leather. The carpet was institutional grey, and an air-conditioning unit hummed subtly from someplace unseen. Nothing adorned the walls, save for a seal denoting the United States Armed Forces.

Out in the desert, just before sunrise, after the Doctor had explained exactly what might happen if the Dimensional Control were allowed to completely fizzle out, and the Transcendentalism of six Las Vegas casinos (plus Area 51 itself) were to fail, Larry had made one more stab at extracting an interdepartmental agreement that the Doctor and his companion would not be harmed nor held at Area 51.

Predictably, even then, Sergeants Wilkinson and Everley had responded with some frustrating rubbish about protocol. At that stage, Martha Jones had heard enough. She stood up in the Jeep.

"You two, you kill me, you know? Military men, big, strong, strapping _dudes_ who work at one of the world's most secure and dangerous stronghold facilities for bloody _extraterrestrial research…_ ugh!" She hopped out of the vehicle, paced around it once, and then asked, "Tell me, gentlemen, you'd die for your country, yeah?"

"Of course," replied Wilkinson.

"No question," replied Everley.

"I completely believe you. I have no trouble accepting that the two of you would lay down your lives for your fellow Americans. Fellow humans, even. Yet funnily enough, you won't risk your military careers for them? Now that just seems, well, counterproductive, at best. Cowardly, though, seems more the fitting word!"

Both men piped up to retort.

"That's right! I said cowardly!" she shouted, aware she was being, perhaps, needlessly audacious. Though, she also knew, they had limited time and she needed to make a clear-cut impression. "If you understand who the Doctor is, then you understand, he has saved your skins more times than you have hairs on your arse, and when he says _lives are at stake_ , he's not fucking around!"

Larry Fortis burst out laughing. "Whoa! Martha Jones! Respect!"

She continued. "There is a situation brewing that could kill literally _millions_ of Americans, and whoever else is knocking about Las Vegas and the environs, and that might potentially level a giant chunk of the U.S. Southwest. And you brave soldiers are worried about a protocol? About bringing in a single alien specimen for your little collection? About possibly getting the sack, if your superiors find out that you brought the Doctor into the facility without sticking him in a cage? If _you_ are who are on the front lines of battle for the most powerful nation on Earth, then… oh, just kill me now!"

Martha crouched against one of the Jeep's tyres, and pouted a bit.

"Come on, guys," Larry begged, after no-one said anything for a while. "Save your country. Be heroes, for once, and ignore the rules."

Martha, the Doctor and Larry, all three, had spent quite a bit of time in the belly of a military organisation, itself entrenched in protocol, though none of them had ever been officially an officer. Nevertheless, they knew which buttons to push, no matter what side of the pond they were on: bravery, patriotism, integrity...

It might have been dirty pool, but they had seen, not so long ago, the damage that could be done because of a simplistic _following of protocol_ on the part of individuals within a military body. Thinking, adjusting, seeing the big picture – these were concepts needed when matters of destruction and malevolence were being considered. And yet, just a couple of months before, they had nearly seen the Earth sucked into a black hole, because protocol, rather than a person's heart, had been followed.

Larry shuddered, thinking about it.

As did the Doctor and Martha, but for different reasons.

And so, after a long, long moment of contemplation, Wilkinson had said, "Fine. All three of you are safe. Get in the Jeep."

"Safe, in what way?" asked Larry, sensing reservation on the part of the Sergeant, and therefore potential for loopholes later on.

"None of the three of you, human or otherwise, will be harmed nor held against your will at Area 51."

"Nor anywhere else, _on behalf of_ Area 51?" Larry asked.

"Nor anywhere else, _on behalf of_ Area 51."

"And you'll do everything in your power to make sure that we are all free to go at the end of this debacle?"

"I will."

"Swear to it? On your life? Gentlemen's agreement? Officer's honour?"

"Yes!" Wilkinson practically shouted, beyond annoyed. "Just get in the Jeep!"

"Are you authorised to make that call?" asked Larry.

"Not really," chuckled Wilkinson.

"Well, what are you wasting my time for, eh? Get on the horn, and talk to someone who is. Get them to guarantee everything I just said."

* * *

And so, here they sat in the conference room.

After about fifteen minutes, Sergeant Wilkinson entered through a black door, along with a broad, grey-haired man, decorated as a General.

"Doctor," he said crisply, holding out his hand. "I'm General Henry Dyer. I'm in charge of this facility. It's an honour to meet you."

The Doctor stood up instinctively and shook the man's hand. "Nice to meet you, too," he said. "I think."

The General then addressed Martha. "Dr. Jones, I presume?"

"Yes," she said, standing, shaking his hand.

"And Dr. Fortis?"

Larry reacted in kind.

The General immediately turned his attention back to the Doctor. "You know, don't you, that if we can confirm that you are of alien origin, we are required to keep you here for study."

"I'm aware," said the Doctor.

"Sir…" Wilkinson cut in.

"I know what you're going to say, Wilkinson," said Dyer. "You gave them some sort of interdepartmental promise that such a thing would not happen. Well, I can't say I'm fully on-board with that, Sergeant."

"But, Sir…" Wilkinson cut in again.

"Don't act so surprised," Dyer scolded. "Sure, I said I'd go along with it, but I'd have said anything to get you, and the specimen, into the facility."

Martha's heart sank, at the revelation, and at hearing the Doctor being called _the specimen._ Though she was, it seemed, a lot less surprised than Sergeant Wilkinson. The Doctor felt the same way. In fact, he had felt that Larry's efforts to get them all off scot-free had been noble, but practically impossible, given the circumstances.

"General Dyer," the Doctor tried, nevertheless. "We have a situation that could…"

"I know, I know, blow up a quarter of the United States," said the General. "Before I do anything as foolish as agreeing to give up rights to your person, Doctor, I would need to know the specifics."

"Rights to his person? You're joking, right?" Martha asked, stunned.

"I am not, Dr. Jones," he said. "You are a military woman yourself, you know the importance of protocol."

"I am a doctor," she protested. "I'm a woman of science. I am a researcher and a humanitarian, General. I have never been an officer, and today, I'm very glad not to associate myself with such a title."

"Fine then," he said, trying a different tack. "Then as an operative for UNIT, you understand the importance of extraterrestrial research."

"Yeah," she agreed. "But you're missing a crucial point: the Doctor can give you more information alive than dead!"

"We have no intention of making him dead. That would be in direct contradiction to the mission statement of Area 51. Besides, as we understand it, he'd just regenerate anyhow."

The Doctor chuckled. "I'm actually kind of impressed that you know that," he said.

"Then, he _will_ give you more information as a free man, rather than as a prisoner!" she tried again.

"Martha," the Doctor lulled. "Stop. I'll tell him what he needs to know. I'm not going to sacrifice millions of human lives because of… _him_."

"Doctor…" she tried.

But he had already turned toward the white board, and had picked up a marker. He began to draw a diagram…

* * *

The Doctor's explanation was dizzying. He had drawn a practically-to-scale map of the Southwestern United States, specifically revolving around Nevada, and zeroing in on the Las Vegas strip. He had explained, in physics terms, the mechanics of Dimensional Transcendentalism. He broke down the math: how much space was occupied transcendentally by each one of the casinos (estimated, based on his acute sense of spatial relations), how much space was available outside the casinos, the amount of pressure that a failure of control would cause, the size of earthquake that would result, and what exactly would happen to the buildings in its path. How many people occupied those areas?

"I know that parts of the US are earthquake-ready, but the seismographers won't see this coming _at all_ ," the Doctor pointed out. "It's not based on any seismic phenomenon they know about – it will take _everyone_ completely off-guard, you can count on it."

"Damn," said the General.

"And that's not even going into what would happen with all the various and sundry alien artefacts you've got squirrelled away here, at Area 51," the Doctor added.

"You think it would throw our Dimensional Control out-of-whack?" asked the General.

Larry Fortis looked at him with surprise. "You know about that?"

"Of course I do," Dyer shrugged. "I mean, I didn't know what it was called until now, but I know there's a doohickey that makes this place bigger on the inside than on the outside."

"Wow."

"I didn't get this job because of my good looks. I also have a Master's degree in Theoretical Physics and a Ph.D. in Differential Geometry," Dyer reported.

"Well, then, _Doctor_ Dyer," the Doctor said, attempting to appeal now to the man's scientific, rather than his military, mind. "I regret to inform you that the same person who set up the Dimensionally Transcendental space here, also set it up in the casinos."

"That's interesting," Dyer said, not appearing particularly surprised. "But we've learned how to regulate ours."

"That's good. I'm genuinely pleased to hear that. In that case, it's probably occurred to you that the scenario I've laid out for you is probably the worst-case, but it is just as likely as the other two possibilities."

"Two? Well, it has occurred to me that the casino spaces would just shrink, but…" Dyer said.

"Exactly," the Doctor said.

"Causing its own type of carnage - bodies smashed between walls and slot machines and whatnot. But what else could happen?"

"If the space contracts at a certain speed, with just the right pressure, anything inside could get sucked through a dimensional portal that may or may not open temporarily as a result of the Transcendental collapse. It's a toss-up."

"Mm. Do you have a plan of attack for those scenarios?"

"Not as of yet," the Doctor said. "I'm trying to deal with the one with the possibility of the most fatalities, first. I reckon, though, if people get stuck another dimension, depending upon the dimension, I may have a fighting chance of getting them back – with a little help from my friends here, of course. That sort of thing plays right into my wheelhouse."

"I'll just bet it does," Dyer said, with a friendly smile.

The Doctor turned to Martha and said, low, "Though we'd need the TARDIS back, for that."

She had almost forgotten, in all of the hubbub involved with Area 51, and getting just a bit shamefully lost in admiring her Doctor's commanding presence in the room, that they were currently without the TARDIS. The Doctor's mortal enemy had stolen it. Again. And they had no idea where she would take it, this time.

There was a long silence in the room, while Dyer seemed to contemplate the diagram and the whirlwind of equations the Doctor had drawn on the whiteboards.

Before he had a chance to ask another question, the Doctor said, "Now, given what I've told you, and the fact that you have quite some knowledge of Theoretical Physics, I'm guessing that it might also have occurred to you that a much larger Transcendental space of the correct proportion might solve the problem."

"Can we do that?"

"You're an intelligent man with a formidable science background. You tell me."

Dyer looked at him with a mixture of vexation, amusement, and an expression that betrayed that he felt cornered. After a few beats, he said, "I have no idea, Doctor. But you knew that, didn't you?"

"Well, maybe," said the Doctor, emphasising the _well_ , and smiling widely. "Fortunately, that's why I'm here."

"I see."

"And it's also why you maybe shouldn't put me in a cage, eh?"

Again, there were a few beats, then, "Probably."

The Doctor considered Dyer. "Well, it's a start. It'll have to do for now 'cause we're running out of time. We're going to need your Cambiotac device."

"You're going to start with a morphic perimeter?"

"Yes."

"Brilliant idea."

"Thank you. I thought so."

"But you can't," said Dyer.

"What? Why?"

"Back in the day, as they say," Dyer explained. "When they realised what the Cambiotac was for, as you may have guessed, my predecessors came up with ways to use it, along with a couple of other trinkets from out-of-towners, for national security. Mostly Cold War stuff. They wanted to see if they could use it to figure out how forcefields work – it was to be step-one in the InvisiDome project."

"Oh, I'd heard of that," the Doctor commented.

"Me too," said Larry. "That's what InvisiDome was meant to be?"

"Yeah. But it never got off the ground, as it were. Because, they did, indeed, figure out how to calibrate the Cambiotac device for the specific topography of this portion of Nevada, encompassing Area 51 and the Las Vegas metropolitan sprawl, such as it was at the time. But when the engineering team actually got their hands on it, they saw that they would need a transcendental attachment for it, as its vehicle."

"It's missing its own transcendental programming platform?"

"I think so," Dyer confirmed. "Must've been lost in the conflagration. That is, the crash that brought it to this planet in the first place."

Flatly, the Doctor said, "And you can't just _walk it_ out into the desert, or wherever, and expect to make a morphic perimeter."

"No, you can't."

After a beat, the Time Lord asked, "Can I assume that if you had any equipment inside Area 51 that qualified as even remotely transcendental – a teleport, a disseminating anti-virus device, anything like that – you'd have tried it."

"Yes, you can."

The Doctor stared at him in disbelief. After about ten seconds, he placed both palms on his forehead, and said, "Bugger!"

"What does this mean?" Martha wanted to know.

"It means we need the TARDIS," Larry told her.

"Even then, a Cambiotac device is made to interface with its own programme, because… well, duh, of course it is. We could use the TARDIS, if we had it, but it would take the Cambiotac about eight hours to interface and assimilate into the TARDIS' software and sentient-ware, and even more time to program coordinates," the Doctor said, almost without moving his lips.

"Bugger," she agreed.

"Are there any other Cambiotac devices on Earth?" Larry asked. "I've never looked into what the Black Archive at UNIT actually possesses, but…"

"They might have one," the Doctor interrupted. "In fact, they probably do. But the reason we keep talking about calibrating to the specific topography of this part of Nevada is…"

"…the perimeter needs to adjust itself over time," Larry said, his voice falling. "I get it."

"Right. What's contained on the inside of the perimeter needs to breathe and expand, and the whole point of _having_ a morphic perimeter is to keep it all breathing safely. And to do that, it needs to know the rise and fall of the desert, the sands, the species of bush and cactus," the Doctor continued. "Without that, the perimeter could reject the terrain, and fail. And if we made the perimeter and turned it into a transcendental space, and then it failed?"

"Then we might as well just let Missy's Dimensional Control fail and walk away from this whole business," Martha finished.

"Yep. The damage would be far worse, even."

"So, I'm guessing, it would take hours and hours, days and days, to calibrate a Cambiotac device to the terrain around Area 51 and Las Vegas?" Martha said. "Because Larry and I could finagle one away from the Black Archive if we had to."

"It would take months, not days," Dyer told her, sadly.

"If we had a time machine..." Martha started.

"But we don't," the Doctor finished, looking at her, crestfallen.

"Okay. Great. So how the hell else do you make an intangible, invisible perimeter that will accept a Dimensional Dam in its matrices and gradually expand with the inevitable growth of the space inside?" Larry asked the room.

"Well, if I had a penny for every time I've been asked that…" the Doctor mused.

* * *

 **Psst! Take a quick moment and leave me some feedback! It'll make my day!**


	18. Chapter 18

**Here comes possibly more pseudo-sciency stuff (glad that most of you seem to like it!), and a hint of how things are going to go down. Just a hint, though... ;-)**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

EIGHTEEN

No-one in the room was taking the news particularly well. The Doctor's "Plan B," after "Plan A" in Mullen's office had been foiled by Missy, was totally pinned on getting the Cambiotac device. But now, it appeared that this was not going to happen, at least, not without a miracle.

"So how the hell else do you make an intangible, invisible perimeter that will accept a Dimensional Dam in its matrices and gradually expand with the inevitable growth of the space inside?" Larry Fortis had asked the room.

The conference room went silent for a while, and all eyes were on the Doctor. He walked round the table, staring at his feet, then he walked round it again, and then a third time. Wilkinson had been standing still and at attention since entering the room, but now was forced to take one step backward to accommodate the Doctor's relentless pacing. Until that happened, Martha and Larry had both rather forgotten he was there. It was amazing how quiet he was, now that General Dyer was in the room, considering the bravado he'd shown out in the desert.

At long last, the Doctor stopped on the opposite side of the table, and began to speak.

"Okay, look. We were always going to have to solve this TARDIS problem anyway, because she's the only shot we've got at making a Dimensional Dam that doesn't take months to build. So… item-number-two on the to-do list just became item-number-one."

"We get the TARDIS back," Martha said

"Ah! Yes, we do, only now, it's harder because it was just conceivable that the TARDIS might have homed-in on the Cambiotac perimeter, as a morphic feature in an unlikely environment. We don't have that option now, so… we'll have to try something else, but that's okay, because I have a plan. Well, not really a _plan,_ as of yet, but I do have a sonic screwdriver."

"You're going to build a morphic perimeter around Las Vegas with your screwdriver?" she asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Of course not," he dismissed. "Don't be daft."

"Okay, okay, then what?" she wondered, chuckling a bit.

"We use the sonic to get the TARDIS back," the Doctor said.

"Oh, I see," she said sarcastically, denoting that she'd known that, of course.

"And then, Martha, we use _the TARDIS_ to make a perimeter."

"Oh!" she exclaimed. _This_ she had not known. "It won't take months to calibrate to the topography?"

"We don't need to calibrate it to the topography, because it won't be a strictly morphic perimeter."

"It won't?"

"No," he said. "Morphic perimeters change to suit the terrain, and are controlled using their own programming platform. Our perimeter will be totally TARDIS."

"Totally TARDIS?" she asked, with a smirk.

"Totally TARDIS. Made by the TARDIS, controlled by the TARDIS."

She frowned. "Okay. If you say so. Just keep talking, I'll catch up."

Seeming to forget that anyone else was in the room, he now came round the table and leaned against it, directly in front of Martha, speaking only to her. "Okay, the original plan was to use the Cambiotac to make a morphic perimeter that would breathe with terrain, yeah? And then, we would use its matrices to insinuate the TARDIS' Dimensionally Transcendental qualities into it, to make a Dimensional Dam around the perimeter, thus allowing the casinos and everything else to expand slowly, in all directions around Las Vegas."

"Right."

Everyone else in the room nodded, with the same slightly confused look as Martha's.

"So, now, all we can do is make the perimeter using the TARDIS, and build the Dimensional Dam at the same time. Which, now I think about it, is even better! Because if the TARDIS can have her hooks into this whole thing, with no interference from other alien technology, like the Cambiotac, then I will be able to regulate the perimeter's expansion from afar. It's just a question of maintenance – a little every day, until the Dimensional Transcendentalism in Las Vegas can be contained. I mean, I was planning to have to adjust the spatial proportions inside the perimeter over a long period of time anyhow. What's one more thing?"

"So, the TARDIS will actually _be_ the Dimensional Control for the Transcendental space that will encompass Las Vegas and Area 51?" she asked.

"Yes! And I have to say, there's something kind of beautiful about having the whole thing fabricated from the Dimensionally Transcendental DNA of my TARDIS. Though, as we've discussed before, it _will_ deplete her fairly severely."

"Seriously? Why didn't we think of this before?" she wondered.

"Well, when you think _build a giant Dimensional Dam with a changeable perimeter,_ you think _Cambiotac,_ don't you?"

"Oh, yeah, totally," Martha answered, with a whimsical, sarcastic frown.

"Right," the Doctor said, curtly. "And so… General Dyer, please show me to the surface."

"The surface of what?" Dyer asked.

"The Earth," the Doctor said, as though the man had just drooled on his shirt.

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to attempt to summon my TARDIS from very far away, and it would be best if there weren't God-knows-how-many stories of alien tech between me and her."

"Right this way," said the General, gesturing for his guests to follow, and walking through the only door in the room, with purpose. The Doctor trailed behind, then Martha Jones, then Larry Fortis, with silent Sergeant Wilkinson bringing up the rear.

As they followed Dyer, the Doctor looked about quite a bit, seeing what he could see. He did not know exactly how _vast_ the Dimensional Transcendentalism was in this place, how much space it actually _didn't_ take up on this planet, and the gymnasium-like rooms that he could see did not give him a clue. He tried to catch a glimpse of, say, an unnaturally long hallway, or an entire room that seemed compressed inside a column or something, but no such luck. What he did see was a door, labelled _Volatile._ He tapped Martha's arm and gestured toward the door with his eyes, and they watched as a man in a white coat slid his credential through a card reader, and went through the door.

This served to remind them both that the _volatile_ confiscated alien artifacts on the premises might be detonated via any instability in the interior space of Area 51, and their impact might, in fact, lay waste to more of this country than any damage done by an expanding casino.

* * *

They found themselves in some type of cemented courtyard, to which General Dyer had led them. It contained a square of well-manicured, incongruous grass, and a few more squares of "xeriscape," which utilises plants that require very little water – a popular landscaping option for the driest of the U.S. states.

"Will this do?" the General asked the Doctor.

"I suppose," the Doctor said, extracting the sonic screwdriver from his breast pocket.

"What are you going to try to do?" Larry asked.

"I should be able to program the console controls remotely, to at least let me in."

"Let you in?" asked Larry.

"Yes, let me into her programming from afar, to make further changes. Here goes nothing," the Doctor said, holding the screwdriver aloft. He pressed the button and the device buzzed as it usually does… for about three seconds. After that, it gave into a sickly groan, then stopped.

The Doctor frowned, banged it against his opposite hand, and tried again.

But he was met with the same result.

He cursed, and pressed the thing to his ear, let it buzz briefly a couple of times. "Are you sick?" he asked it. Then, he said, "Okay, plan B."

"Now what?" asked Martha.

"I'm going to try and bring her down."

"Could that work?"

"On a normal day, yes," he said, a deep scowl colouring his face. "But today, it's a long-shot, at best."

"Because of Missy?" asked Larry.

"Because of Missy," the Doctor confirmed. "If literally _anyone else_ had stolen the TARDIS, I might have more faith that we'll be able to bring her down to us, but as it is…"

He sighed heavily, and seemed to readjust the sonic. Then he held it aloft, and the device made a different sort of buzz. Again, though, the buzz only lasted a few seconds. After that, it faded out as before.

The Doctor seemed to realise something then, and searched his pockets once more. He found a second device, one that Martha recognised as the Master's laser screwdriver. She had once, in another universe, in another time, watched as that very screwdriver was used to murder her future (now ex-) fiancé.

"How the hell did you come by that thing?" she wondered, with a delighted smile.

"I made her give it up, while you were gone, getting Larry," he told her. "I wanted us to be able to have a civilised lunch together. Actually, I was hungry, and couldn't very well leave her alone while I made myself a sandwich, could I? Nor could I bring her into the corridors of the TARDIS as long as she was armed. Well, _armed,_ I suppose, is not quite the right word…"

"That's brilliant!"

"Hold that thought," he warned.

"I don't care if it works or not," she said. "It's still bloody brilliant that you have it!"

He fiddled with the laser screwdriver and muttered, "It used to be coded for the Master's genetic signature. That is, the Harold Saxon Master."

"The what?" Dyer asked, clearly recognizing the name Harold Saxon.

But everyone ignored him. "When she regenerated, she would have had to reset the codes by first dismantling them, then, over time, she would have had to tame it. Form a relationship with it. Hey, and she said she never _cultivated_."

"She said what?" asked Larry.

"So depending upon how long she's been a _she_ , which isn't quite clear since, well, you know… time travel. And it's not polite to ask a lady her age, so… _a-ha_!"

"What?" Martha asked. "What's a-ha?"

In answer, the laser screwdriver buzzed. The Doctor smiled widely and Martha repeated, "Brilliant!" with a loud clap.

The Doctor now used the two screwdrivers in tandem, boosting the signal to the TARDIS. But after ten seconds, the laser screwdriver's tone ramped up suddenly, the thing sparked and he was forced to drop it. He shook his burned hand, cursed again, and knelt to look at the metal apparatus, now lolling back and forth on the concrete beneath their feet.

"What happened?" asked Dyer.

"Well, she's locked out any interference from the sonic screwdriver," the Doctor said, still from his crouched position. "And using the laser screwdriver caused the TARDIS to feel threatened. Her firewalls sent retaliatory feedback through the laser itself and… well, you see." He gestured to the smoking thing on the ground.

A disaster was about to occur, potentially killing millions. The device they'd been banking on was not an option. Their only hope now was the TARDIS, which was in the hands of the Doctor's oldest and most stubborn enemy. The sonic screwdriver didn't work, the _laser_ screwdriver was now out-of-commission, and it was fairly clear that even at Area 51, the bizarre and alien was still a bit too bizarre and alien, to be of help.

Not to mention the _bizarre and alien_ that could be tipped toward catastrophic explosion.

Things seemed dire. Without hope.

The Doctor stood up straight and began, once again, to pace.

"Okay, what have we got? What have we got?" he began aloud.

And Martha smiled.

"What are you smiling about?" asked Dyer, almost bitterly.

"This is the part I like best," she replied, watching the Doctor move.

Larry smiled, as well, in response. Dyer and Wilkinson exchanged a look, and a shrug, of confusion,

"Think, think, think," the Doctor told himself, tapping his temple lightly with the sonic. "I'm Missy, I've got the TARDIS, I want to be left alone, what do I do? First things first, I dematerialise, leaving my adversaries behind in the desert. I'd probably have coordinates set to reverse, at least initially… it's the only thing I could do in the time I have, considering that I also have to program a more-complicated-than-normal dematerialization." He stopped and asked Martha, "I mean, how long were we looking away from her? Ten seconds?"

"Something like that," Martha said. "So, does that mean she just went back to Mullen's office?"

"Maybe for a few moments, just to get away from us, but I think we can safely assume she didn't stay there." He resumed pacing. "What would she want with that place? She'd more likely go there, then hop somewhere else… maybe even to pick up Farid."

"What if she kidnapped Mullen or something?"

"Why would she do that?" he asked, stopping to stare at her.

"To vex you? Distract you?"

"Okay then," he said, continuing the pace. "I won't let her distract me. We will check on Mullen first thing, after this is over. Was going to do that anyway."

"Fair enough, I guess."

"So, now, I'm Missy, I've got the TARDIS, possibly I also have my slightly-daft-but-handsome-and-brawny companion aboard, and no-one to stop me, where do I go?" he continued to process aloud. "Ah! Ah, but I do have someone to stop me. The Doctor and that infernal sonic screwdriver, not to mention the far-reaching arm of my own laser screwdriver. So, I lock out interference from outside sources, especially those that have already been associated with the TARDIS' inner-workings."

"Like your sonic."

"Exactly," the Doctor said. "Because Missy, she's not your average haphazard villain. She's going to know that the TARDIS console and the sonic screwdriver are kindred spirits, working together for nigh on eight centuries now. Similar hardware, software, similar processing, similar data, similar…"

"What?" Martha asked, after he trailed off. He had also stopped walking again.

"Doctor, what are you thinking?" the General cut in.

Larry grabbed the General gently by the sleeve and shook his head. "Best just to let the two of them work," he said. "The Doctor needs space just now. Space… and her."

The General nodded grudgingly, and stood aside.

"In order to shut the sonic out from her systems, Missy would have had to put a dampener on some of the TARDIS' sentient-ware," he said, almost silently.

"Sentient-ware." Martha repeated, almost in the form of a question, coming closer to him.

"Well, yeah. Computers have hardware and software, and computers that also have a heart and soul, they have sentient-ware. It's really called Partage mechanisms, but… actually Partage is any kind of sharing and/or communication that the TARDIS can do. Blimey, this is tough to explain, tough to nail down…"

"You don't need to explain," she said.

He all but ignored this comment. "There's regular computer stuff, like _data,_ stuff that everyone knows computers have, and do. But, the TARDIS has certain computerised aspects that communicate with other things in the universe… with me, with you, with the sonic, with other TARDISes when they existed. And other Time Lords, which… well, is part of the problem right now."

"So, she has a consciousness that's, like, half data-processing and half-feeling and thinking."

"A good way of putting it, yeah. Although… it's a bit sterile. Kinda takes the magic out of it."

She gave him a look of tedium. "So sorry, Dumbledore."

"Anyway, Missy would have to disable some, but not all, of the sentient-ware, in order to keep me from summoning the TARDIS with the sonic screwdriver, but in order to be able to still fly it." He sighed, and recommenced walking around, and back and forth. "And, unfortunately, because Missy is a Time Lord – Lady, sorry – then, to some extent, the TARDIS would have no choice but to obey her. I mean, the TARDIS will undoubtedly try to resist, because she'll recognise that Missy is the same person who turned her into a Paradox Machine. But, at the very least, the TARDIS has to allow communication, _some_ navigation, programming… it's what Time Lords and TARDISes do. They work in tandem. We're all sort of _wired_ that way.

"But," he continued. The pace became quicker and shorter now, as the wheels in the Doctor's brain turned even faster. "The TARDIS will not be happy about it. She'll feel suffocated. We already know that she feels under attack from the laser screwdriver… damn it! I should have known that would be perceived as a hostile approach! Why didn't I see that?"

"I don't know, Doctor, but it's okay," Martha said. "Just keep talking. It sounds like you're coming close to…"

"So, the TARDIS is being strangled, in a way… her communication and sharing mechanisms are not in full swing at the moment… at least not those that allow her to be manipulated by the sonic, or, I would guess, by any other machine. But… oh, but!"

"But what?"

The Doctor had stopped again. His eyes were wide, his voice at a hiss. He really was reaching the pinnacle of some sort of realisation… Martha could feel the excitement along with him, even if she didn't yet understand what that realisation was.

"Martha, in what way is a TARDIS like a person?"

"Besides thinking and feeling?"

"Thinking and feeling, yes. But what happens when you take some sense or sensibility away from a person?"

"Other senses or sensibilities get stronger."

"What happens when you suppress something strong, within a human being? Or a Time Lord, or any other thinking and feeling creature in existence?" he asked her, his voice low, but brimming with excitement.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, seeing a slight glimmer of where he might be going with this. "It comes out some other way! Oh! Is that true of a TARDIS? I mean, will something else grow stronger, because she's been cut off from communicating with the sonic? Will she be able to communicate in another way, because Missy's suffocating her from one end?"

"I don't see how it _couldn't_ be true!" he said. "She's sentient. She has… familiarity, equilibrium, sentimentality. She knows fatigue, selflessness, desperation, fear… she knows love. And all of that can be messed-with! It can be disturbed and exploited, or fostered and nurtured… just like it can within you. Or me. It's partly data, but when it gets poked-at, it responds like emotion!"

"So you're saying, because Missy has not been letting her communicate with the sonic, or any other thing _like_ the sonic, then she'll be more likely, more desperate to commune with… us?"

"Yes!"

"Okay!" Martha shouted. Then her spirit fell momentarily. "But how do we harness that?"

"I have a way."

"I'm sure you do."

"It's a long-shot, but it's a way."

"Okay. What is it?"

He walked up close to her and took her hands. "Mind you, it might not work. And, it might be slightly scary." Then he looked across at Larry, with the same pleading in his eyes. "Or maybe, a bit more than slightly."

"You need me?" Larry asked.

"Yes."

"I'm in," answered the physicist.

"Me too," said Martha.

The Doctor grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her hard, but only for about three seconds, in a burst of…something. Enthusiasm? Love? Thanks?

"General, I'm going to need equipment," he said.

"Like what?" asked Dyer, cautiously.

"A helicopter, and provisions for survival in the desert."

* * *

 ***mwah!* You're beautiful!**

 **Hoping you'll leave a review... ;-)**


	19. Chapter 19

**How will the TARDIS form a perimeter around Las Vegas and Area 51, when the Doctor can't even control it? Well, here's part A of the answer! Enjoy the weirdness!**

* * *

NINETEEN

Dr. Lawrence Fortis had been a fan of the Doctor since he was a short, awkward fifteen-year-old. He had heard whisperings of him in "nutter" circles back then. That was in another time, when chatrooms and forums were still considered weird, and/or either dangerous or naughty, and before the internet became what it was today. Or at least, what it was, in 2008, where Larry, aged 29, "lived."

He had sought out information on the Doctor, all he could find, even joining Victor Kennedy's online chatroom for a while, until it became clear that the man was totally unhinged. For a long while, it was assumed amongst some who studied him that "The Doctor" was a title passed from father to son, or at least from operative to operative. Then, they began to realise that the Doctor appears with different faces at times in history when other incarnations of the Doctor exist as well. Some wondered then, if it was an exclusive network of men who operated as the Doctor. Like MI6 and the "double 0" agents.

All of this was Larry's favourite hobby until graduate school, when his studies and a demanding girlfriend basically swallowed up his life. By the time he was recruited by UNIT, he hadn't done any digging on the Doctor in quite some time… and he rediscovered his hobby as part of his job! This was where he learned that the Doctor regenerates. One man, with literally ten different faces. Ten, or… well, he was a time traveler, so who knew how many could be out there, right now? And then, one day, someone handed Larry a fail-safe weapon that the Doctor had forged, and told him to figure it out. He spent months researching the thing, and then, he met Martha Jones. From there, his whole life had changed. He had pretty near lost his job, but he'd gained some field experience, vindication for his bizarre pastime, and most importantly, some measure of the Doctor's trust! Not to mention, the whole affair had introduced him to Tish, who was as fun-loving, intelligent a girlfriend as he had ever had.

He was still a physicist at UNIT, and officially, he was still nothing more than a stuffy, lab-bound scientist for a military organisation, who never really saw any action. Except, now he was also, unofficially, working at the Doctor's side! Moreover, he was standing in the middle of the desert, risking his life, as a "companion" to the Doctor and friend of the TARDIS. He laughed out loud at the prospect.

And then he looked about, realising where he was, and his laughter stopped short.

It was the heat of the day. He was about forty miles, or a couple days' walk, from Area 51, though he had now lost track of which direction it was. He knew that he was sitting to the north of it, but at this point, he had no concept of which way was north. He was up on a boulder, to protect from snakes, the thing he dreaded most in the desert. He was equipped with about a day's worth of water, and a couple of meals and snacks, if needed, and a bottle of super-strong sunscreen. He had been able to change into breathable (borrowed) clothes that also did not expose too much of his pasty English skin to the Nevada sun, and he wore a Safari hat with a shade. This was all part of the Doctor's plan to save the U.S. Southwest, and he trusted the Doctor, but the situation was still bloody terrifying. He sat, baking on a rock, trying not to despair…

…though he knew, this terror and despair was by design. Intellectually, he knew that he probably wasn't in that much danger. But emotionally, he knew that if too much time passed out here, he'd begin to panic.

As he turned his head, inspecting the horizon three hundred sixty degrees around him, he saw absolutely no signs of civilisation. In his pocket, his mobile phone was fully charged, but there was no Wi-Fi signal out here in the middle of God's Forgotten Countryside, and his phone would not recognise any mobile networks present in 2016, even if reception could be had way out here. He thought about just playing Solitaire or something, but irrationally, he did not want to deplete battery power, just in case he should find that he needed the thing for survival…

* * *

The propellers of the chopper whirred above them, and Martha lost sight of the tiny dot on a rock that was their friend, Larry Fortis.

"Oh, God," she groaned, realising that Larry was now totally alone out in the desert. Her words echoed through the radio system that she, the Doctor, Dyer and Sergeant Wilkinson, the pilot, were all plugged into. Each headset was equipped with a microphone and speaker, and this was the only way that those on-board could communicate with one another, given the noise.

Wilkinson responded before the Doctor could. "He's going to be fine. I have his location programmed into my GPS."

She looked at the Doctor with pleading eyes. "Did you see his face when we left him?"'

"Yeah," he said. "It has to be this way."

"I know that," she said. What she did not tell him was that, yes, she was feeling afraid for Larry's sake, but she was also terrified for herself. In just a short while, she would be in the same boat. Rudimentary provisions, no way to get in touch, and no real idea of how long she'd have to be out there.

But the Doctor could read her thoughts, because they were the same as his. He gave her as sympathetic a half-smile as he dared, and pulled her toward him. She leaned against his shoulder and let him envelop her, if only painfully temporarily. He kissed the top of her head, and resisted the urge to go any further to reassure her. It wouldn't help anyone for him to do so.

In less than thirty minutes, they had flown over Area 51 and over a chunk of the suburban sprawl of the Las Vegas metropolitan area, and were back out in the middle of nowhere again. She knew that the drop point was about forty miles southeast of the outskirts of town – farther than she could reasonably walk, with the water ration that she would have. When the last of the man-made structures disappeared over the horizon, she repeated, "Oh, God."

It hurt the Doctor immensely to hear the fear in her voice, at least in part, because it reminded him of his own. He squeezed her a bit tighter, but again, resisted the urge to offer any other placating gestures or words. He would have liked to grab her and kiss her thoroughly, tell her he loved her, plead with her to trust him, and promise that everything would be all right. But he did not.

He could not.

"All right, Dr. Jones, here we are," said General Dyer, programming something into the chopper's SatNav device. "Set 'er down, Sergeant."

Martha almost cried. She looked out over the parched, sun-ravaged desert and her stomach went to smoke as the vehicle dropped straight down to the Earth beneath.

"Good luck, and Godspeed, Dr. Jones," Dyer said to her with a crisp smile. It was precisely what he had said to Larry, and it hadn't been particularly reassuring then, either. In fact, at that time, it had sounded like _goodbye_.

She tried not to think that way now, swallowed her fear, removed her headset, opened the side door and stepped off the helicopter into sand churning like mad with the whir of the blades. When she turned back to look at the Doctor, knowing that she could only now read lips, he looked at her squarely and said, "Be strong."

She nodded with a sickly smile. With a big emotional heave, she shucked away her immediate desire to throw herself at him for one last kiss before it all goes down. This gave her a surge of strength to shut the door with a measure of finality.

It was for the best.

She found a cluster of bushes that offered a tiny bit of shade… or at least would, until the sun shifted. She lay down on the desert floor with her head on her pack, and watched the helicopter disappear over the horizon. She held back the first big sob, but then, wondered, why bother? It couldn't hurt to cry now…

…and so, she did. For about ten minutes, tears fell freely as the sun made her skin hot to the touch.

She eventually calmed, extracted a white linen shade from her pack and threw it over herself, and part of the bush, to further block the sun. She also pulled her iPhone from her pocket and turned on the SatNav. The Doctor had wired it into the sonic screwdriver, and Larry's phone, and Martha could now see where the chopper was located. It was about a quarter of the way to its destination, where it would dump the Doctor off, forty miles west of the outer limits of Las Vegas. At that point, it would be almost, but not quite, California.

She watched the progress of the chopper, with the Doctor and sonic screwdriver on-board, grateful for the distraction. But she was acutely aware that the phone would do her no good out here. She could call her mother if she wanted, since the thing had universal roaming, but she could never tell her, nor anyone, what she was up to. For now, the Doctor was not carrying any communications devices, and Larry's phone could not receive calls. Of course, the Doctor had not bothered to ask for a phone number to the switchboard at Area 51, and she reckoned that they would not have given it out, even if they'd wanted it. She chuckled, wondering if she could just Google it, knowing, of course, that was absurd.

She was truly adrift now, and at the mercy of… what, exactly? The Doctor's hunch?

Well, she'd been at the mercy of worse things, she knew, and the Doctor's hunch wasn't just any old hunch. But it was not just _her_ life at risk now, it was a big part of the southwestern United States.

She now reminded herself of the conversation they'd had with Missy, and with the General in the courtyard, about how the expansion of the casinos in Vegas was only one facet of the problem. A bigger problem might be constituted in some of the alien artifacts at the Dimensionally Transcendental Area 51, whose Dimensional Dam might well fail along with those of the casinos. She recalled the catalogue of scary implements she'd seen on a list, back in her UNIT days, things that could level cities. And when combined…

She shuddered to think of the loss of life.

But the Doctor was most worried, at the moment, about the seismic activity that would result from dimensional expansion. Martha, for the first time in a long, long while, wondered if the Doctor was being perhaps a bit short-sighted.

This was unusual for her, obviously. She had trusted the Doctor, literally, to the end of the universe and back. She had been in this very desert before, walking across the Earth for the sake of spreading the Doctor's message, so deep was her trust. She had given him her heart, even after he'd stomped on it once. She had done things harder than this, risked her life countless times with him, for him, because of him, and risked the lives of those she loved. And it had all turned out okay.

So why was she wavering today?

She stood up and began to walk in circles around the patch of bushes and a nearby cluster of rocks, wondering, what made _this_ situation different?

The heat. The standing still, doing nothing. The absence of a big board of scary controls that she could watch the Doctor rig, for saving the day. The Doctor's having treated the issue of detonating extraterrestrial weaponry so dismissively when she'd brought it up. His understandable distraction over the last hour or so, and his stingy reassurance when she'd come over so fearful in the chopper. She trusted that there was a reason for it, but blimey, it was hard. It made her feel empty and alone, like in their first year together, when she was dying for him to notice her…

She reckoned she'd already done any crying she was going to do, choked back another sob, and kept on pacing, kept on thinking.

* * *

The Doctor stepped off the chopper with no measure of ceremony, and shut the door behind him. The vehicle pulled away from the desert, and he gulped with trepidation.

 _This is good,_ he thought. _I do my best work when I'm terrified._

Unlike Martha and Larry, he'd brought no provisions – no food, no water, no protection from the sun. His system could survive a bit longer without those things than could a human's, and besides, despair was the name of the game, and his own would likely be the catalyst.

In addition, he was vaguely aware that he was, on some level, punishing himself for what he was putting Larry and Martha through. He had some idea of how he would be compensating Larry for this sacrifice. The answer was simple, as Larry had more than proved himself to the Doctor, as a faithful friend, and a fiercely clever ally. But, he had no idea how he would ever apologise enough to Martha. He reckoned it might be fun trying, though.

But he shook off any comfy thoughts of her. He concentrated on forgetting, for the moment, her beautiful face and smile, her incredibly enticing body and manner, and any idea that being with her might ever provide any comfort or pleasure to him. He tried to imagine he'd never see her again, and to remind himself that this was a very real possibility. What if this thing took too long, and one of them wound up dying in the desert? What if Martha sustained a snake bite, with no possibility of calling for help? What if Wilkinson or Dyer didn't follow his orders, for whatever reason, and did not return, to collect them from the desert, in the allotted time? What if their chopper crashed? What if one of them talked the other out of coming back? They were, all three of them, at the mercy of two military-minded Americans who may or may not believe in the Doctor and his methods. What if the folks at Area 51 had agreed to the Doctor's "plan" just to get him, Martha and Larry out of the way, so that they could hatch their own arrogant, half-baked solution that involved great loss of life and/or limb?

He had dealt with people like this before. He couldn't put it past them.

He also reminded himself that the spreading of Dimensional Dams in the MGM casinos of Las Vegas wasn't the worst of their worries. It was the most likely scenario, but the fact that Area 51 held a veritable arsenal of extraterrestrial weaponry that humans didn't even know how to handle, that was a worry not to be pushed aside. The force of several nuclear weapons likely hid beneath the surface of this desert, and the destruction would not be limited to _this desert._ This train of thought, along with this unique lot of _having to stand still_ while it all unfolded, gave him more than a small measure of discomfort. He kicked at the dry rocks beneath his feet with agitation.

All of this was valuable and cathartic. But, the bottom line was, they were running out of time, and the Doctor actually did have a sort of "job" to do out here.

He sat down on a tuft of brown desert grass to meditate.

And contrary to any other time he had done this, he tried to concentrate on the imminent danger. He thought about the desperation in his heart, the guilt he felt, the whole terrible situation they were in, and instead of letting the voices of the universe quell him, he asked it for help. A Time Lord, more alone, even, than usual, adrift from his companions, rejecting love, rejecting comfort…


	20. Chapter 20

**This chapter was imagined as the climax... I went back and edited several times, in order to give it more "fire." I hope you find it exciting... *nervous smile***

 **It's been a while since we've seen "The Man In Black." I thought perhaps Missy might think she'd need him in the future...**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

TWENTY

Farid turned a corner and arrived in the TARDIS console room, with a cold compress at his temple.

"There you are," Missy said to him, with no wonder nor kindness. She was standing at the controls, monitoring something or other. Looking him over, she asked, "What in the name of decency took you so long?"

"Cut me some slack, would you? It's like a frickin' maze in here."

"Of course it is, love," she said with acidic sarcasm. "It's Dimensionally Transcendental, remember?"

"How could I forget?"

"Besides, how hard is it? You asked me how to get to the kitchen and back, so I told you. Usually, you're so good at following directions. Do I have to find a new companion, Farid? Don't make me recruit Martha Jones, because that would be a task and a half."

He looked at her with a deadpan disgust, and said, "You told me to take like twenty-seven turns, Missy. How the hell was I supposed to remember all that?"

"Twenty nine, dear," she corrected. "And I only did that because I thought you'd bring me back a cup of tea."

"Sorry," he said. "The giant bruise on the side of my head took priority. You'll have to get your own tea."

"When did you get so cheeky? You know I don't get my own tea," she insisted. Then she pulled a face, pointed at his temple and asked, "Anyway, are you kidding me with that?"

He removed the ice compress and showed her the deep purple bruise, the size of a plum, beside his right eye. "No, I'm not. Look at this thing."

"Yeah, look at it. You can't be serious. You let _the Doctor_ do that to you?"

"It was that bony elbow," he spat.

"Not the point," she said, curtly. "The point is, Farid, that he's been a non-violent Gandhi sort ever since he regenerated out of that embarrassing Venutian Jiu-Jitsu phase."

"So?"

"You allowed yourself to be knocked unconscious by the biggest tree-hugging, Kumbaya-singing hippie in the known universe! What's next, flapped to death by a hummingbird?" she shouted.

"He got the drop on me," he said, staring at the floor. "It happens."

"Not on my watch," she said. "Any more such nonsense, Farid, and you're history."

"Fine."

"And I'm not like the Doctor. I don't just _abandon_ my companions, or let them walk away. Got me?"

He stared at her with incredulity, and a measure of fear. "You're goddamn insane."

She flipped a switch on the console, and agreed with him, razors in her voice, "Yeah, so don't fucking cross me." Then she smiled sweetly and asked, "Okay?"

Farid sighed and shook his head with disbelief.

"Now," she said. "Are you ready to do this thing?"

"Do what thing?"

"I'll need you to gain entry into the Stronghold of Vespercia, and make a big, distracting scene, while I sneak through the underground tunnels using the TARDIS. I should be able to materialize inch-by-inch, thereby confusing the ever-loving snot out of them, the imbeciles. Once they realise anything is happening, that is. Anyway, think you can do that?"

"Create a diversion? Sure," he answered. "Tell me again why we're doing this?"

"They have the most sophisticated, _illegal_ cloaking technology in the universe," she said. "We're going to steal a bit of it and let it get into the TARDIS' guts. In about a week, the TARDIS will be undetectable to any…"

Her explanation was interrupted by a huge jarring of the TARDIS, so violent, so quick, that the gravity accommodators failed for about two seconds. Missy and Farid were momentarily airborne and thrown against the wall near the exterior door.

The vessel, it would seem, had lurched over on its back, and was now moving at breakneck speed. Even with the pressure and gravitational regulators in the console room, the two occupants were obliged to hold on for dear life

"What the hell, Missy?" shouted Farid, as the TARDIS lurched, and they both fell to the floor. He stumbled to find leverage against a railing.

"Obviously, I did not do this!" she shouted back, stumbling as well. She glanced up at the TARDIS' windows and recognised the flash and fury of the time vortex. "We're being pulled through the vortex!"

"What? How?"

"Oh, gee, hmm… let's think. I'll give you one guess who's doing it, you idiot!"

She climbed her way toward the console. The entire TARDIS was vibrating and bumping, even more so than usual.

"How are you doing this?" Missy said aloud to the absent Doctor. "I blocked the sentient-ware from the sonic bloody screwdriver!"

She found the screen, and stared at it, trying to determine where the ship would eventually land. Though, she didn't _really_ need to be told.

All at once, they lurched to a stop.

"Where are we?" asked Farid.

"Godforsaken Nevada again," she sighed.

Farid moved carefully toward the door, opened it, looked outside. "The desert."

"Not surprised."

With that, she adjusted a few things, then threw the TARDIS into gear again, and it moved.

"There we go," she sang. "Even farther away this time. Plus, I dampened the sentient-ware even further."

Again, the TARDIS jostled so hard, the two of them were thrown away from the console. This time, they were flattened against the ceiling momentarily, before dropping all the way to the floor.

"You bitch!" Missy shouted at the time rotor. "You're doing that gravity thing on purpose!"

Once again, it appeared that they were being pulled unceremoniously through the vortex.

A siren began to blare from the controls, and Missy recognised it. She swore.

"Can't you just disable the autopilot or whatever?" asked Farid, lamely, as he held onto a different railing this time. He was belly and chest to the floor, his arms wrapped around the affixed pole like a parent's leg.

"It's not on _autopilot_!" she snapped. "It's more complicated than that! It can _think_ , Farid, and _feel._ It's acting of its own accord. Sort of. If I disable it completely, I won't be able to fly it!"

"What's that noise?"

"It's a distress call," she told him. "The TARDIS is responding to it, and I can't stop her! What is this, like your automatic response now, after seven centuries with the Doctor? Distress is your bread and butter, is it?"

The TARDIS did not _land_ , this time, but rather, it broke through the vortex and chose Nevada, August, 2016 as its destination. And then the vessel began to move differently…

Even Farid recognised the change in 'feel' of the TARDIS' movement and trajectory. "What's happening? It feels like we're just… flying."

"We are," Missy said, now upright, hanging onto the console. She looked at the screen. "Back in the desert, but flying, just like a common aeroplane…"

Farid got to his feet as well, and felt the vibration of the TARDIS beneath his feet. He held on, and after a few beats, he said, "We seem to be accelerating."

"Right again, genius."

* * *

The heat of the day, not too far from Death Valley, the Doctor waited. And languished a bit.

Even though he knew this couldn't go on for too long, there was a bit of fear setting in. What if he'd made the wrong decision? What if his plan didn't work? What if Martha or Larry ran into trouble? There would be no-one along to save them for a while…

Even knowing intellectually that the oppressive heat was probably warping his thinking, it didn't help. And he tried not to think too hard, but spend his time focusing on the direness of the situation.

He meditated. Asked the universe for help… asked the TARDIS for help. In essence, a Time Lord was sending out a distress call. What is a TARDIS to do?

It took a long while for any result, but once the response came, it was spectacular!

All at once, there was a great _whoosh_ sound, followed by a loud _pop_. The whole effect broke the desert silence so completely, and so effectively, that it startled the Doctor. He looked up at the sky, shielding his eyes from the sun, as the TARDIS seemed to push it way through a screen and come barreling at him from above.

About twenty feet above his head, the vessel spun, and took a different direction, heading southeast, in Martha's direction, at breakneck speed.

"Ha!" he cried out, standing up. "Brilliant! Come back for me, baby. I'll be ready!"

And he brandished the sonic screwdriver.

* * *

The sun had shifted, and now the small patch of bushes that had provided a tiny measure of shade, it provided no such thing.

Martha still paced, but not with any intent nor direction. She just couldn't be still. She thought about doing so, about lying down once more on the desert floor or stopping just to listen to the stillness. But all she could picture were vultures gathering, skeletons picked clean, and herself, becoming forever a part of the landscape.

She did stop momentarily, however, to take a few sips of water.

And as she did, a sound came out of the distance. She froze in any movement she made, and her eyes instinctively searched the horizons for the source of the noise.

Something flickered inside of her. Hope, was it? Not that she didn't trust or have faith before, but… in this setting, with _this_ kind of desolation…

Hope.

There was a thundering _whoosh_ , and it only grew louder. She smiled, and looked into the distance expectantly. "It's the middle of the desert," she said, her voice teeming with excitement. "Hot as hell… I could be hallucinating…"

She bounced on the balls of her feet like a child, just a little, so bursting was she to see the Doctor's plan work, and see that he, again, had bested his oldest foe with a little thing called _love_. He had, once more, estimated that compassion would rule out over the Master/Missy's digging her heels, and fingernails, into all that is good.

And after twenty seconds or so, the most beautiful blue box in the universe appeared in the sky, coming from the west, and came careening in her direction at a speed she could not estimate. She laughed out loud when she saw it, and gave a loud cheer.

"Yes!" she cried, punching the air, followed by a cackle.

Above her head, the TARDIS spun for a moment, then changed directions again, and disappeared into the distance, to the north, where Larry was waiting.

She smiled hard, and gave one more jump, one more leap of _happy._ "I love you, you crazy genuis," she whispered to the desert air.

* * *

The TARDIS lurched, changing directions suddenly, throwing Missy and Farid off their feet. Both of them cursed, and then struggled to get upright and find purchase against the console again.

Farid knew that he should probably give up asking questions because either Missy didn't know what was happening, or couldn't do anything about it. And either way, she was bound to call him an imbecile for his trouble… but he could not remain silent.

"What the hell is happening? We're still accelerating!"

"We're headed southeast now," she said. "I don't know why! I mean, a distress call is one thing, but the TARDIS seems confused. I can't think why she'd be shooting about in different directions, this fast! If you're going to answer a call, just answer it, for God's sake!"

She adjusted a few things on the console, and Farid watched her with concern. "What are you doing? Is this going to slow us down?"

"I'm trying," she said. "I've let down a few of the defences I just put up… hoping I can interface with her just a tad more…"

With that, she seemed to try to wrangle a few of the controls on the console, and she stared into the time rotor, as though it held all the secrets of existence (as indeed it might). But after another thirty seconds, the TARDIS changed direction again, throwing Missy and Farid onto the floor.

"Damn it!" she yelled hard, again climbing back to her feet. "Now the north! What are you doing, you dizzy cow?"

Missy scowled deeply, and lowered a couple more channels of communication, attempting once more to interface with the Doctor's trusted companion, but to no avail. Whatever distress call it was answering took precedence over the commands coming from within. It changed direction again, and headed southwest.

* * *

Larry Fortis basically just tried not to think. Thinking was too stressful in this environment.

Thinking logically, scientifically, about what could happen to him, if the Doctor, General Dyer and/or Sergeant Wilkinson got foiled. Wasn't this "Missy" person _just_ as clever as the Doctor? Only crazy and evil, and willing to do stuff he'd never dream of?

He had tried thinking happy thoughts, of his family and Tish. But all that did was remind him that he might never see them again, and make him feel as though his life was flashing before his eyes.

He tried to imagine what was going to happen here, but the Doctor had explained it so quickly, he was barely aware of what language the Time Lord had been speaking. Larry had been too busy trying to secure the right provisions for himself and Martha (vexed though he was that the Doctor was refusing any provisions), to listen closely anyhow.

He knew that the TARDIS was supposed to _do_ something on its own, as a result of him, Martha and the Doctor being out in the desert in supposedly strategic positions. Somehow, it was supposed to override the influence of Missy on the inside, in order to obey the Doctor from possibly light-years away… how? It made no sense to him. But the vessel's inner-workings were basically beyond him, even theoretically. Martha seemed to understand, but to be fair, she had been travelling with the Doctor for quite a while now, and had spent quite a bit of that time in the TARDIS, communing with it.

And even these thoughts brought him angst, because they brought him hope. Yes, they kept his mind occupied, but they threw him into a circular train of thought, that usually ended with despair and his ultimate death.

So, he contented himself with holding his head in his hands and staring down at the boulder upon which he sat. "Oh, look, there's an ant," he said to himself. "Wonder where its anthill is. I wonder what type of rock this is. Pretty jagged… probably a fairly new one, geologically speaking. Hey, a beetle. The Egyptians liked beetles."

His thoughts were meaningless and disjointed, and this was how he liked it. It was the only way he could keep the fear at bay… he hoped that would be good enough for the Doctor and the TARDIS.

Just as he was having this thought, a strange sound reached his ears, and he looked up into the burning sky for the first time in he didn't know how long… it felt like weeks, but it was probably more like twenty minutes. He searched the endless blue for the source of the sound, and was rewarded with the sight of the TARDIS coming over the horizon.

He got to his feet, in excitement. "Are you kidding me?" he shouted aloud. "Doctor, you are chuffing amazing! Amazing!"

As the TARDIS hovered over his head momentarily before speeding off in a different direction, he leapt up in the air, and gave a whooping cry.

From then on, he didn't sit… he just waited to see the TARDIS come back round.

* * *

When the Doctor saw the TARDIS again, it was coming twice as fast at him, this time from the north.

"Good girl," he said, and he held the sonic screwdriver aloft. "Let's hope Missy's got desperate and had to undo some of those nasty dampeners from your sentient-ware, eh?"

The device buzzed in his hand.

As the blue box passed over his head, and changed direction once again, heading toward Martha, he saw a barely-perceptible yellow wake forming, like fire trails in the air.

It was back in less than a minute, coming again from the northwest, then lurching to the southwest. The yellow trail had nearly dissipated, but it grew a bit stronger this time.

When it came around yet again, the same thing occurred. The yellow trail was glowing and growing, becoming solid… becoming a perimeter.

After several more passes, and once the lines above his head were sufficiently robust, he changed the setting on the sonic screwdriver. And when the TARDIS came around again, he began to see and feel a clear, but slightly silver, sheen coming from her.

She was beginning to share some of her transcendence. She was insinuating herself into perimeter she had formed, to make a gigantic Dimensional Dam, made solely from her own cosmic consciousness.

The Doctor nearly cried with the beauty of it.

* * *

"Oh, stop it, you big baby!" Missy shouted in anger at Farid, inside the TARDIS. She was on the floor, clinging to the base of the stool.

The ship was now moving so fast, and violently changing directions so often, that the two of them could no longer get to their feet at all. She had no recourse at the console, because she could not reach it. Farid, had now taken just to screaming against the pressure, the nausea and the fear.

"Do something!" he demanded, as an alternative to simple and continuous, "Aaaagh!"

"I can't!" she insisted. "Unless I can get my hands on the controls… we're buggered! And even if I could, the distress call is overriding everything! I've never seen anything like this!"

"Why won't it land?"

"I don't know!" she answered, trying to peer up at the screen. It jostled back in her direction when the TARDIS changed course again, and she saw that the trajectory of the vehicle seemed to be forming a triangle. "A triangle? What is that about? Three separate distress calls? At least one of which is powerful enough to override direct commands from within… oh!"

All at once, she realised what was happening.

"What?" Farid asked. "What is that? What's 'oh'?"

"Bloody Doctor and his bloody do-gooder-ettes!"

She glanced up at the time rotor, and saw that its light was beginning to flicker, and occasionally diminish, and she recognised that in addition to the speed, the TARDIS was now expending an enormous amount of effort on something. And now she knew what. She had heard the Doctor say that he wanted to get his hands on the Cambiotac device.

"How is he doing this?" Farid asked.

"He's totally taking advantage of your vulnerabilities!" she practically screamed from her spot on the floor, at the TARDIS. "You know that, right? He's _put_ himself and his precious Martha and that _Larry_ person in distress! He's manipulating you! He knows that _their_ peril will drown out anything I could do to you! _Of course!_ "

" _Of course!_ " echoed Farid.

"And you know what else?" she asked Farid, teeth gritted, both of them being thrown to the left hard. She recovered, and continued, "He's playing on _my_ vulnerabilities too! He knew I'd have to shut out communications in order to get anything accomplished, and he knew that the TARDIS would be desperate to reach out because of it!"

"Why didn't you see that coming?" Farid asked, his knuckles white, gripping hard.

"Why didn't _you_?" she snapped. "And… _damn it!_ He also knew that I would try to lessen some of my dampeners so that he could get back in with sonic, once the bloody thing started jostling all over the place like a crazy, drunken ship. Damn it, damn it, damn it!"

By this point, she was screaming, still being jostled, her head hurting from the roller-coaster like dips and shakes it was taking.

"Well, since you know so much, can you tell me when this is going to stop?" Farid wondered.

"Hang on, love, it's gonna be a while," she said, just before the TARDIS lurched again, and seemed to knock the wind from them both.

* * *

 **Reviews would make my day! What are your thoughts? :-D**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	21. Chapter 21

**And now, the story begins to wind down... probably the trilogy as well!**

 **In fact, I'm pretty sure that this is the second-to-last chapter!**

 **Please enjoy it! :-D**

* * *

TWENTY-ONE

For over an hour, the TARDIS answered the Doctor's distress calls, and flew through the desert, unsure of whether to help the Doctor, Martha Jones or Larry Fortis. In the end, she helped all three, by creating a perimeter around metropolitan Las Vegas and Area 51, and insinuating its transcendence into the perimeter, turning the whole triangular chunk of land into a Dimensionally Transcendental space.

Martha and Larry could not see the perimeter with their human eyes, nor the Dimensional Dam, but the Doctor surely could. To him, it appeared as a silvery, transparent shimmer, spanning the desert and oscillating like the mirage of an oasis. It could have been a mirage, for all of its tangibility, but no… the Doctor knew better. He smiled as the TARDIS made her last few passes high above, essentially spreading a dome over the top of the triangular Dam they had made.

And he knew that now, because Time Lords and TARDISes were the most predictable thing in the universe to him, he knew he'd be able to summon the TARDIS down to _terra firma._ The sonic screwdriver buzzed in his hand, and disappeared from the sky.

* * *

All at once, the mad zipping about came to a halt, and Missy and Farid were left looking at one another with sickly, quizzical stares. They did not trust that the vessel wouldn't suddenly set off on her path again, so they waited.

When the gears started to give their signature churning sound, Missy shouted, "Oh, no you don't!" and attempted to get to her feet.

But at first, she could not. Her stomach was too unstable, her knees were jelly, and her vision was blurred.

Farid tried the same thing, but he ended up careening against the edge of the platform, into the railing. He blinked several times, and tried to shake off the dizziness and nausea, but it didn't work. In his case, not only had he been jostled inside a gravitationally-unregulated vehicle at a zillion miles per hour for over sixty minutes, but he had also fairly recently been knocked unconscious by a blow to the head. The nausea and disorientation were overwhelming.

In the same way, Missy was thrown by her own lack of equilibrium into the passenger's chair, and she was unable to stand up quickly.

By this time, the gears had stopped, and Missy knew exactly what would happen.

The door opened, and the Doctor, having ditched his suit jacket and tie somewhere, walked through it.

"Hiya," he said, cheerfully. "So, how was your flight?"

Farid stumbled down the ramp, pushed the Doctor out of the way, ripped the door open, and fell to his knees in the desert gravel outside. They then heard him retching horribly. Both of them winced at the sound, and Missy wondered if she would be next.

"Ooh," the Doctor said, sucking air in through his teeth. "Nasty, that."

"Your fault, you arse," she spat back.

He shrugged. "What do you want from me? I'm not a good pilot. I failed my exams – you know that." He turned and opened the door, not daring to step out again. "Farid? You okay, mate?"

"No, I'm not okay!" the man in black shouted. "You've turned my insides to soup!"

"Let me give you a little piece of advice," the Doctor began.

"Save it, Doctor," Missy commanded. "Farid, love, the Doctor is about to tell you that this is what happens when you collude with me. You get your arse kicked and all other manner of horrific humiliations. You should just go back to your sad little life as a call-centre wonk, and attempt to forget all about me." She rolled her eyes, and tried to act like she wasn't so pissed off she could scream, and also so sick to her stomach, she was barely holding onto the sandwich the Doctor had made for her several hours before.

"Your words, not mine," the Doctor said. He held out his hand to Farid, and said, "Come on."

"No fucking way," the man insisted. "I'm not going back in that ship. Especially not with you."

"All right, so shall we just leave you here, then?" the Doctor asked, dropping his hand.

"No," Farid groaned. He turned, still on his knees, and grabbed the Doctor's wrist. The Doctor grabbed his wrist in turn, and tugged hard, until the man was on his feet. From there, he helped a very defeated, very green Farid into the TARDIS.

"Oi," the Doctor said to Missy. "He needs that seat more than you do."

She moved away from it reluctantly, and watched her oldest, fiercest enemy deposit her "companion" onto it. For her part, she was still obliged to steady herself against the railing, to keep from vomiting or succumbing somehow to dizziness. She refused to sit down on the floor - she reckoned it would have been a sign of weakness.

From there, the Doctor locked the doors and controls and set them to his own genetic signature, lifted all of the sentient-ware dampeners, replaced the force-field over the entryway to the TARDIS' corridors, and prepared for departure.

"Where are we going?" asked Missy.

"Area 51," he answered gravely.

"Oh, are you going to _teach me a lesson?_ " she asked. "Fantastic. I've always fancied being dissected."

* * *

When they stepped off the TARDIS just barely within sight's distance of Area 51, Missy was rapidly recovering, but her companion was much the worse for wear. Farid's complexion, normally quite tan, was pale, and still running to green. He stopped and steadied himself against the corner of the police box.

"It's not far to walk," said the Doctor, resetting the TARDIS' front lock to his own genetic signature. "Just a mile or so."

"Okay," said Farid, apparently trying not to vomit again.

"Want help?"

"No, I'll be fine," Farid said. He turned and began to stumble forward, toward the flat complex of military buildings before them. After about five steps, he fell.

"Oh, blimey," the Doctor sighed. Leaving Farid out here, exposed, was not an option, nor was leaving him in the TARDIS, even if he had no idea how to operate anything inside. He asked Farid if he had anything on underneath his black cable-knit sweater, but the man in black replied, "No."

"I'd tell you to lose the jumper anyhow, except this sun is _wicked_ , and, well, you're going to need to be _dressed_ when we get to Area 51," the Doctor said to him. "Although, Missy, maybe you want to lose the jacket?"

Missy followed his advice, and took off her own black jacket, discarding it on the desert floor. She now wore a white dress shirt, though the Doctor shed his own dress shirt, leaving a dusty cornflower-blue t-shirt, the least amount of clothing he'd worn "in public," in many, many moons.

"Doctor," Missy said, looking him over as she rolled up her sleeves. "I like the casual look. You'd look almost a bad boy, if you added a touch of denim."

"Shut up and help me," he said to her. He knelt and put one of Farid's arms over his shoulders, and lifted the man to his feet. It was awkward, given that the Doctor was quite a bit taller, and he didn't particularly fancy walking the mile with a hundred and fifty pounds' extra weight, and his knees bent, but there was no choice.

"Oh, I don't think so," she said. "I don't _lift._ I'd say it was a symptom of my femininity, but it's really not."

Coupled with Missy's high heels, the Doctor and Farid's situation made the party's progress painfully slow.

"Jesus, Doctor," breathed Farid. "Why'd you have to park so far away?"

"Oi!" the Doctor objected. "How about, _thanks for the help, Doctor, especially given that I've been in cahoots with your enemy for the past God-knows-how-long, and you really should just leave me for dead. But I know you're not that kind of guy, and I appreciate it."_

"Sorry," Farid said. "Thanks."

A few moments passed, and the Doctor said, "Besides, you probably already know the answer."

"If you parked it any closer to Area 51, they'd take it from you."

"Exactly," said the Doctor. "See? You're not an imbecile. Missy is completely wrong about you."

After another few minutes, during which all three of them concentrated on not falling, they found a relatively stable, large patch of solid rock upon which they could walk more steadily for a bit.

During this time, Missy chuckled. "I must say, Doctor, this little plan of yours… it was quite elegant."

"Yeah, thanks."

"No, I mean it," she said. "Building a Dimensional Dam round Las Vegas using the TARDIS' transcendental qualities, working within its own perimeter's matrices. Very beautiful. Almost like the TARDIS is Las Vegas' mummy, now. Awww."

"Its mummy, yeah… that's what I was going for," the Doctor told her, struggling to remain upright.

"At first, I thought you were just trying to make us sick enough that you could bring the TARDIS back with no resistance, which would have been an effective plan as well, considering the blow to the head you also gave my illustrious friend, here. It would not have been as elegant, as plans go, and much, much messier, but… effective."

"I am nothing, if not elegant," the Doctor responded sarcastically.

Around that time, as before, they saw a vehicle heading towards them, coming from the military base.

"Damn it," Missy sighed.

"What? They're going to _drive_ us in, and save us this bloody drama," the Doctor snapped.

"I was hoping for a bit more time."

"For what?"

"For convincing you not to hand me to them on a silver platter," she told him, as though she were telling him that she had tea prepared in the lounge.

"He wouldn't do that," Farid said.

"Why not? Just because he's helping you now?" she asked. "You're human. You're redeemable in his eyes. But me?" She chuckled bitterly.

"You wouldn't do that, would you, Doctor?" Farid asked him, straining to look up at him with worry in his eyes.

The Doctor looked at both of them in turn, with a deep scowl, thinking.

"Oh, I know that look," Missy said, rather cheerfully. "When he's smug, it means we're in it deep. When he's calm, but beatific, it means he's sorry, but he's going to do what he thinks is right. When he looks like _that,_ Farid, we've got a shot."

"Really?" asked the nonplussed human.

The Doctor gave a growl, which told Missy that she was absolutely correct.

That was when the Jeep arrived. The Doctor recognised Sergeant Everley, one of the men who had met him, Martha and Larry in a Jeep when they'd first arrived in the desert, and were slogging toward Area 51. He was alone.

"Hello, Doctor," said the affable man. "Who are your friends?"

He then noticed Farid, and hopped out of the Jeep with a canteen of cold water, offering it to the sick man. Farid took it and drank, standing up straight, shakily. The airsickness from the TARDIS' crazed flight, combined with the desert heat, had not done him any good.

When he finished, he handed the empty canteen back to the Sergeant and grabbed onto the Doctor's shoulder, but seemed much better-equipped to stand on two feet.

"Right well, these are some associates of mine," the Doctor answered. "Dr. Melissa Majoria, and Dr. Farid Johnson."

"Farid… Johnson?" asked Everley, looking skeptically at the clearly middle-eastern man.

"Yeah. I grew up in Milwaukee," said Farid, with his usual, completely crisp, American accent. "Dad works for Michelob."

Everley said, "Okay. And Dr. Majoria?"

"Call me Missy," Missy told him, with a little salute. "I… _did not_ grow up in Milwaukee."

The Doctor interjected, "Fortunately, I was able to dispatch with the complete and total nutbomb who stole my TARDIS…"

Missy interrupted. "Our instruments picked up the Doctor's TARDIS, and we noticed that it was not being piloted by the Doctor himself, but rather, by a cunning, wily, and very good-looking, _miscreant_ of unknown, dark, origins. Dr. Johnson and I were able to run a code that…"

"Anyway, the point is, these two are some associates of mine," the Doctor said, glaring at Missy. She got the message and clammed up, rather than be turned over to military alien-hunters. "Freelancers. Been working with them for a few years now. They pop up now and then."

"I don't suppose the two of you have credentials?" Everley asked.

"Isn't the Doctor's word credential enough?" Missy asked. Her voice seemed to convey some sincerity.

"It is for me," Everley admitted. "But I can't guarantee how this will be handled at the gate."

"Where are Dr. Jones and Dr. Fortis?" asked the Doctor. "Have they been picked up yet?"

Everley answered, "No, but the chopper has been dispatched. They should be back in fifteen minutes or so. Meanwhile, shall we see if we can penetrate the fortress?"

"Oh, it's all right, just leave us here," Missy said, batting away the comment. "We'll be fine."

"I can't do that, Dr. Majoria," said Everley. "You'll at least need to come inside for a background check, to make sure you're on the up-and-up."

"You mean, to make sure we don't have any unsavory associations?" asked Missy.

"Exactly."

"Doesn't the Doctor count as _unsavory?_ " she wondered.

The Doctor muttered, "Just get in the Jeep."

* * *

Farid sat up front, and Missy and the Doctor took the back. During the ride, the Doctor slipped her the psychic paper. On it, it said, "Use this to get in. But if you try to make off with it, you'll be receiving all of your Christmas cards at Area 51 for the foreseeable future. As for Farid, let's give him heatstroke."

She nodded at him, and he held out his hand for her to shake. She did so.

When they arrived at the front gates, the guard in a small kiosk stepped out, and demanded that everyone except Sergeant Everley exit the vehicle. The Doctor, Missy and Farid obeyed.

"Sergeant Fillner, this is the Doctor," Everley said. "I trust you know his status."

"I do," said the humourless Fillner.

"And these are Drs. Melissa Majoria and Farid Johnson," he continued. "Freelance associates of the Doctor's."

"Freelance… what? Freelance aliens?"

"Erm, they are high-end computer… people," the Doctor said. "High, _high_ end."

"I see," Fillner muttered.

Just as he was about to turn to Missy, she put her hand on Farid's shoulder and said, "You don't look well, Farid. Are you certain you don't have heatstroke?"

For a split second, the Doctor was afraid that the man wouldn't catch onto what Missy was saying. But something in her eyes must have communicated to him, and he grasped the door of the Jeep, and nodded. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he said, though he seemed to swoon.

"You're not fine," she insisted. "You're about to pass out!"

Everley came around the vehicle and said, "I thought this might happen. He was positively green when I caught up with you three."

Fillner gave a great sigh. "Fine. Why don't you escort him to Infirmary A…"

"No, I think I just need more water," Farid protested weakly. The Doctor applauded his acting, pretending to resist the very thing they wanted, so as not to seem too keen.

"I think it would be best if you went with him, and let them take care of you," said Missy.

"Ugh," he said. "Okay, if you think it's best."

She took his hand, and very earnestly said, "Just do what they tell you, and _don't try to talk._ Save your strength. We'll come for you when we leave. Understand?"

He nodded, as Sergeant Everley took his arm, leading him away.

In the second and a half before Fillner demanded Missy's credentials, she and the Doctor exchanged nervous glances.

But when the time came, she produced the psychic paper, which seemed to say that she was a computer security specialist for the British government, in the S.H.O.E.S. Division.

"What in God's name is the Shoes Division?" Fillner wondered. "Never heard of it."

"It's the Secretive, High-Ops, Existence-Suppressed Division," Missy answered. "Not even UNIT know about us."

The Doctor smirked at this bit of cleverness on Missy's part. She knew they'd be looking in to the background of someone called Melissa Majoria (which was a planet), and wouldn't find anything... at least they wouldn't find what they would "need" to find, so she had willed the psychic paper to tell them that she worked for a division of government that required "existence suppression." He didn't even know if that was real, in Britain in 2016, but it would explain the fact that she didn't seem to exist.

Also, by telling them that UNIT didn't know about the S.H.O.E.S. Division, she was giving a bit of an ego-boost to Area 51.

"Fine," Fillner growled. "Now, as I understand it, you'll be needing to meet up with General Dyer."

"Yeah, sure. Him, too," the Doctor said, thinking more of his companions.

"Come on inside to wait," he said, stepping aside, and allowing the Doctor and Missy into the air-conditioned kiosk. "I'll call you an escort."

* * *

 **Thoughts? Please leave me a review!**


	22. Chapter 22

**This is the final chapter, my friends! I don't know how you'll feel about it...**

 **One loose end will be tied up, while another is left completely dangling, though in what I think is a totally characteristic fashion! And most importantly, a new paradigm in the TARDIS is about to begin!**

 **Thank you for reading! This has been so much fun! :-D**

 **On with the show!**

* * *

TWENTY-TWO

The Doctor, and a very nervous Missy, sat in the same conference room where the Doctor had delineated his plan to build a Dimensional Dam around Las Vegas, its environs, as well as Area 51, using only the TARDIS, a Time Lord, and two humans.

They waited there for about twenty minutes, during which, very little was said. The Doctor felt sure that Missy had at least a hundred questions to ask, but that pride would not let her ask any of them.

When they'd been escorted to the room, the underling who had performed the task had said, "General Dyer will be with you momentarily."

Truthfully, though, the Doctor didn't care about seeing General Dyer again. The day was saved, he didn't need some guy in a uniform telling him _well-done_. What he wanted was Martha and Larry back, so that they could all just get on with their lives.

 _Momentarily_ had long-since turned out to be a misnomer when the General actually did stride into the room with Martha and Larry in-tow.

The Doctor stood, and Martha came at him directly, with a relieved hug. He knew her very well, though, and knew the _feel_ of her. The embrace was practically vibrating with restraint, and he could tell that she'd very much like to gush over the experience, perhaps weep a bit, and definitely plant a kiss on him that would rattle them both.

Though, perhaps he only "knew" these things, because it's what _he_ was feeling.

" _Unbelievably_ good to see you," he whispered emphatically, kissing her ear subtly.

"Unbelievably good to see you, too," she whispered back, relief dripping from her voice. She let go before it became awkward for everyone else, though, and looked him over. "What are you wearing?" she chuckled.

He looked down at his usual shoes, usual trousers, but unusual blue tee-shirt. "Same thing as always," he shrugged. "Just less of it. It _is_ the desert."

"I know. I've seen it first-hand."

"Thank you," he said to her, very seriously.

"It's all right," she said. "It's what I'm here for."

Again, a very restrained moment passed between them, in which they both gritted their teeth, smiled, and tried not to fall apart.

On that note, she moved aside, and they both shifted their attention to Larry.

"All right, mate?" the Doctor asked him.

"Fabulous," answered Larry Fortis, with an exhausted smile.

"Looks like you got some sun," the Time Lord said, of the man's pink nose and cheeks.

"Yeah, well… English skin, desert heat. What'd you expect?"

"Thank you," the Doctor said to him, in the same serious way as he'd said it to Martha. "Really."

"You're welcome. Really."

"Oh, come on, now!" Martha exclaimed at the Doctor. "If you're not going to do it, then I will!" With that, she jumped up and threw her arms around Larry's neck.

He seemed relieved, and returned the hug with a little laugh.

"Doctor," General Dyer said, moving forward toward the Time Lord, with his hand extended. "You are everything they say, and more."

The Doctor met the handshake, and said, "Not so bad for a non-human, then?"

"Yeah," admitted the General. "As long as the casinos, and everything around them, are safe…"

"They are, as far as I can tell," the Doctor said. "But the original Dimensional Dams are due to fail… oh, right around now. So, I have to get back to the TARDIS very soon… damage control will begin and end with my ship's console."

"All right then," said the General. "Doctor, I am committing a breach of protocol that could see me stripped of my rank, by letting you go. This is in the name of the immense service you've done our country."

"And also because, if you keep me, then no-one will regulate the Dam," he said, glancing at Missy, who broke the momentary eye-contact. "And you'll be right back where you started."

"Yes, that too," Dyer said, with a smirk. He then seemed to notice Missy, still sitting in a chair, sardonically watching the proceedings. "Dr. Majoria, I presume?" He extended his hand.

"Yes," she said, standing, shaking the man's hand.

"You had a part in this as well?"

"I did."

"Well, I thank you, ma'am."

"Just glad to be part of the team," she chirped, with a big, aggravating smile. Martha couldn't help but roll her eyes.

* * *

With Sergeant Everley at the wheel, the Doctor, Martha Jones, Larry Fortis, Missy and Farid (stretched across the back, with a cold compress on his head) all rode across a mile of Nevada desert in a U.S. Military-issue Hummer, toward where the Doctor had left the TARDIS.

When they piled out of the vehicle, the Sergeant shook hands with the Doctor and said, "Thank you, Doctor. It's been… educational. Too bad I'll never be able to tell anyone!"

"Nature of the job, innit?" asked the Doctor.

"I suppose," he answered with a smirk. He said his goodbyes, and drove away.

Now all that was left were the last two surviving members of an ancient race, and their three human companions.

The five of them looked at each other for a few awkward moments. Farid, though, studied only the Doctor.

"What?" asked the Time Lord.

"I knew you wouldn't turn us in," Farid said. "I don't know how I knew it, but I knew it."

"He's a do-gooder, I tell you," Missy reasoned. "And he thinks I've still got some good in me. I think he's still got some… _whatever I am…_ in him."

The Doctor sighed, ignoring Missy, addressing Farid. "Humans are… _backward_ sometimes, especially when it comes to what is… _other._ "

"Aliens, you mean," Farid confirmed.

The Doctor nodded. "As for example. They think the best way to handle us is to lock us up, study us, et cetera, et cetera, treat us like we don't have consciousness, awareness, feelings, and the like. They'll learn, eventually. But, it will be a long while before they decide simply to commune with us. And until that happens, I will save them from their own folly, and decide on their own behalf, that it is not their place to imprison anyone just for the sake of it. And, as it happens, that means saving Missy from their folly as well. Even though she bloody well deserves to be shut away…"

"Ooh, so _commanding,_ " Missy breathed.

"…shut away for what she did, there are other channels for that," the Doctor finished.

"Like what?" asked Farid, looking at Missy with caution.

"There's the Shadow Proclamation, there are a number of private intergalactic citizens' prisons…" the Doctor mused.

"And there's you," Missy interrupted, bitterly, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Sometimes," he answered.

"It's not _their_ place, these idiots at Area 51," she hissed at him, with venom in her voice. "But it _is_ yours. To pass judgement, to keep a lockdown on what is _other_ , to police the whole goddamn universe, most especially this ridiculous planet, for some reason…"

"Missy," he said, cutting her off. "Shut up. Just… well, that's it. Shut up. I've had enough of you."

"Have you, now?" she asked, silkily.

"Yeah. I have." He looked her over with a large inhale and exhale, then, "Martha, do you remember what you did with the vortex manipulator?"

"Yes," Martha answered.

"Will you get it, please?" he asked her, unlocking the TARDIS, using his own key, and his thumbprint.

"Really?" she whined.

"Yeah," he said, curtly. "Please."

She disappeared inside of the box, and when she returned, she had the leather strap hanging from her left hand. She handed it to the Doctor.

"Psychic paper?" asked the Doctor.

Missy dug into her back pocket, and held the small black wallet out to him. He took it, and in exchange, he gave her the vortex manipulator.

"Now get out of my sight," the Doctor said.

"Seriously?" asked Missy, rather surprised.

"Yeah. Go."

"What ever happened to, having someone to _care for_ aboard the TARDIS? What about making sure I don't do something highly untoward, the moment I leave?"

The Doctor sighed, again. He stared at her wearily, seeming to contemplate her words. "You're a menace, can't deny that." Then his tone changed, and his temper ramped up. "And not just that, but you're a big, red, flaming pain in my arse! Honestly, the two of us… we're the only ones left! We should be working _together_ , not against one another. How the hell did this happen, eh? How? Did you really go mad from staring into the Vortex, and then just decide one day, randomly, to make _my_ life as difficult as possible? What did I ever do to you?"

She held his eyes, and looked at him impassively for a few moments. The three humans looking on, did just that: looked on. Their eyes were wide, wondering what she would say, what she would do… what would happen next, here in a desert on Earth, with two Gallifreyan minds clashing.

"I can't answer that, Doctor," said Missy. Her tone was neutral, her face was flat. There was no hint of mucking about, of flirtation, of _enjoying_ the moment, as usual.

"Last time we stood on this precipice together, I said you couldn't ever end it – let yourself die, kill yourself, whatever. And for a while after that, I thought you'd proven me wrong. But then, you turn up here… in Nevada of all places, and I realise, you're the same as always."

"I guess I am," she said, still flat, still unreadable.

"My oldest enemy, my oldest friend. You change on the outside, but… I still wonder if you're able to grow."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not."

"Same as always." He spoke with sadness, almost without moving his lips. Martha wondered, in that moment, if he'd actually ceased to speak _to_ anyone, and was now simply thinking, emoting aloud. "The same hearts and soul, the same as you were way back then. And you're it. There's me, and there's you."

"So sentimental," Missy said, reprising her old acidic tone. "This is why you can't be rid of me, Doctor."

His tone piped up to sarcastically chipper. "Oh, would you rather I lock you in the Titanium Stockade on the back of the TARDIS, and bring you food twice a day? 'Cause I could. It's clean, and everything."

"Clearly, I would not rather that."

"Then why the hell are you still here? Go!" he told her.

"Come on, Farid," she said, quietly, taking her companion's arm.

"But you know what?" the Doctor asked her, stepping forward. His face was now taut, reptilian almost. His teeth gritted, he spat at her, "I don't want you thinking I'm just a _do-gooder._ Because you know me. You know what I've done, and what I could do again, and you know for a fact that I don't have unlimited patience."

Missy did not respond, nor did she recoil. Her gaze was as cold as always.

"So, make no mistake. One day, my patience will _most definitely_ run out. And it will run out a lot faster if you keep messing with this planet."

"Got it," she responded.

"I'm serious, Missy, or whatever your name is," he growled, going nose-to-nose with her. " _You stay the hell out of my way._ Go find some dank corner of the universe, and just _disappear._ Do you understand?"

"Yes, for God's sake!"

"Do you?" he shouted.

"Ugh, let's go, Farid," she sighed. She pressed the button, and disappeared.

After about ten seconds, Martha mused, flatly, "And they're off… to wreak havoc elsewhere."

"Yeah, probably," the Doctor grumbled. "What would you have me do?"

"I don't know, honestly," she said, quietly, remembering the last time, and thinking of the possibility of living in the TARDIS with Missy and Farid, as their "wards," or their prisoners.

"Let's just get out of here."

He walked into the TARDIS, Martha followed him, and a shell-shocked Larry Fortis followed her.

* * *

For a few minutes, all was quiet in the console room, while the Doctor worked at the controls. The tip of his tongue stuck out the side of his mouth, and his whole body was fixed in a stance that told Martha he was concentrating hard.

When he was finished, he said, "Okay, that ought to do it."

"Do what?" Larry asked.

"I've just calibrated the newly-formed Dimensional Dam, to allow for fifteen per cent's worth of expansion in the next month or so," he said. "Which is probably much more accommodation than it will need, but, better be safe than sorry, eh?"

"So, you told the Dam to let Las Vegas grow," Martha said.

"Well, that's simplifying it a bit, since I had to add in commands for each individual Dam, which is to say, each casino and Area 51."

"That means, you can control each one of them from here?" Martha wondered.

"Yep," he said. "Once the smaller Dams are inside the larger one, they become part of the larger one. Like all the rooms of the TARDIS, are part of the TARDIS' Dimensional systems, each casino Dam is now part of the Las Vegas Dam, and I can, and just did, program them to expand slowly. Should be imperceptible to the average tourist."

"What about the non-average tourist?" asked Larry.

"We'll just hope that any brilliant physicists that stay in the hotels remain drunk, for the duration."

"Okay. Fabulous plan," Larry responded, with a smirk.

The Doctor added, "I set an alarm to remind me to recalibrate in about thirty days' time. We'll see how things go, after that. Expansion should slow down, after the initial… burst."

Martha and Larry nodded, having nothing to say, and the Doctor set the coordinates for a particular destination. Larry assumed the Doctor would be taking him home. Instead, when the gears came to a halt, he said to Larry, "Martha and I have a loose-end or two to tie up. Why don't you just stay here, yeah?"

"Okay," Larry shrugged.

"Don't touch anything," the Doctor scolded.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Larry told him, with a big smile, and his hands in _disarmed_ position.

Martha and the Doctor stepped out into Joseph Mullen's office, on the third floor of the Bellagio. Mullen himself was waiting expectantly, right outside the box.

"Hi, you two," said the CEO, with anxiety in his eyes, and instability in his voice. He was still wearing the same dress shirt and jeans as he had put on the night before, when they were all eating Thai food. "What the hell is going on? Where did you go?"

"Oh, er…" the Doctor said, looking to Martha for help. The previous evening, Missy had burst into his office and switched off the Dimensional Control, and then they had hall disappeared in the TARDIS, without leaving a forwarding address. So much had happened since then, though… "We went to Area 51. We handled it."

"Area 51?" Mullen asked, eyes wide, teeth bared. "Are you kidding me?"

"No, unfortunately. We had no choice. Varpet forced our hands."

"You said…" Mullen began, then stopped. He seemed to contemplate for a moment, trying to remember events. "You said, that woman was Varpet."

"She is," the Doctor told him. "Varpet, as you know, is not… I'll use your words: Earth-based. And neither am I, if you'll remember."

"Right. You come from a technologically-advanced race that can manipulate the laws of physics," Mullen said. Then he laughed. "Holy shit, I never thought I'd say anything like that, and be serious about it."

"You're a bit sleep-deprived again, aren't you?" Martha asked him, noticing his blood-shot eyes.

"Yeah," said Mullen. "Interplanetary intrigue gives me insomnia."

"Yes, well," the Doctor answered. "Our race can change gender. We'll leave it at that."

"At will?" asked Mullen, with a weird tilt of his eyebrow.

"No, not at will. It's kind of random. Kind of. Anyway, we're getting off-topic. Suffice it to say, Varpet is now… well, she calls herself Missy, and that's who you saw. And, as you may have guessed, she's not going to regulate your Dimensional Dams anymore."

"Then who is?"

"I am," the Doctor answered. "I have the new Dimensional Control in my console in the TARDIS, so you don't have to worry about that thing anymore. In fact, let me take it off your hands."

Mullen happily picked up the shell thing from the credenza, and handed it over.

The Doctor went on to explain, in a way that Mullen could understand, what they had done, in the time they'd been gone. The man listened with wide eyes, and disbelief.

"The upshot is," the Doctor continued. "That buildings, especially the tall ones immediately surrounding the casinos, will need to be reinforced. You'll have to use your influence in the community to spearhead that."

"How?"

"Mullen, you're the CEO of MGM Resorts International, and this is Las Vegas," the Doctor scolded. "Are we really saying that you couldn't get a high-end construction company on your side, had get real-estate moguls to listen to you? Come on."

"Okay," Mullen gulped. The Doctor and Martha could both perceive the wheels begin to turn within his mind.

"I'll phone you next week with the structural specs, and a deadline for getting them met."

"Okay."

"Private residences in the environs, in the suburbs, will begin to notice more and more cracks in their foundations. You'll need to warn the seismologists who work in the area… get them into your pocket. Have them keep their eyes open for anomalous activity, and report it, and also have a cover story for the homeowner's associations and whatnot, because you know they'll come a-knocking. I can put you in contact with Area 51 if you'd like, and you can use the government hush-hush rubbish to keep the seismic activity business totally secret," the Doctor continued.

"Okay, I'll get a phone number from you, when you call next week," Mullen said, very meekly, in absence of anything sensible to say.

"With good seismologists and an excellent construction company in your corner, and some carefully-meted-out information and secrecy, Las Vegas should be able to expand itself by fifty miles or so, slowly, over the next, say, decade. I'll see to it that the expansion happens safely, and without any danger of sucking anyone into through a portal…"

"That's good news," Mullen whimpered.

"And people won't notice," the Doctor said, shrugging. "Or, at the very least, they won't be able to quite put their finger on why it all feels so weird, let alone explain it."

"Okay," Mullen repeated.

"Do you have any questions?" the Doctor asked him.

Mullen was silent.

"Do you have a billion questions?" Martha asked him.

He nodded.

"We understand," Martha said. "Maybe we'll just leave you to it for now… we'll be in touch, okay?"

"Okay," the CEO repeated once again.

* * *

The TARDIS dematerialised far, far away from Las Vegas. After that, the Doctor disappeared down the main corridor for a few moments.

Walking back into the console room, tying his tie, having once again donned a dress shirt and suit jacket, he bellowed, "So, Larry! How's tricks? All right?"

"I'll be needing a cool bath," answered the physicist. "But other than that, I'm none the worse for wear."

"Good."

"Actually," Larry said. "I take that back. I'm quite confused."

"About what?"

"Missy put up defences so that you couldn't control the TARDIS with the sonic screwdriver, yeah?"

"Correct," the Doctor replied, unnecessarily rolling the two r's, and flipping God-knew-what switches on the console.

"So then… how did you control it?"

"Well, once it got going, Missy had no choice to put down some of those defences, so _she_ could penetrate deeper, and hope to regain some control. When she did that, I could get in, and tell the TARDIS to start dimension-sharing."

"But how exactly did it get going? I'm still… I don't get it," Larry sputtered. "I mean, I know that it was something to do with answering a distress call, and us sitting out there in the desert was part of it but…" He trailed off, because he couldn't think of what else to ask, so he just shrugged at the Doctor with a confused, despairing expression.

Martha smiled at him warmly, because he _really_ didn't get it – how the three of them, in their distress, got the TARDIS moving. The Doctor's machine-gun explanation, just before they'd all piled into the chopper, had been enough for her, but she was already well-versed in frenetic Doctorspeak, and frankly, understood the Doctor's _life_ well enough to get this particular nuance.

The Doctor came round the console and leaned against it, with his arms crossed. "The TARDIS was pulled out of wherever the hell Missy had taken it, wherever in time and space that it was, to answer me, in my distress."

"Right, okay."

"Missy had dampened some of her communicative tools, which, because the TARDIS is sentient, actually made her reach out further, more desperate to make contact… especially with me. And as it happens, the TARDIS and I have forged such a strong connection over the past eight centuries that, me, in the desert, no food, no water, meditating, calling for help, it was enough to tip that bit of desperation in her, and make her come running from across the cosmos."

"Now _that_ is cool," Larry commented.

"But when she got near me, she realised that my faithful companion, and _her_ faithful companion, Martha, was also in distress. So she moved to help Martha. But when she got to Martha, she realised that _you_ were in distress, so she moved toward you. When she got to you, she heard _me_ calling again, and came running…. and so on, and so on, until she realised what I was trying to accomplish. By then, Missy let up on the dampeners, and I could command with her properly, using the sonic."

"So… _my_ distress caused the TARDIS to come running? I mean, after yours and Martha's of course." Larry asked.

"Yes," the Doctor said with a smile.

"She's connected to me?" he asked. "I mean… I'm connected to her?"

"Apparently," said the Doctor. "I had a feeling… I mean, I wasn't sure, so that's why I said early-on in the plan that it was kind of a long-shot, but clearly it wasn't out of the realm of possibility."

" _What_ isn't out of the realm of possibility?" Larry asked, incredulous.

Martha laughed. "You're one of us now. You're a companion to the TARDIS."

"What?" Larry spat, smiling widely. "Are you serious?"

"Totally," the Doctor answered. "The TARDIS, as she sometimes does, saw it before I did. She isn't rooted in the here-and-now, as you know, and, well… she already knew. You're a traveller, Larry. You're brilliant, you're resourceful, you're brave, and…"

"So it means…"

"Yes, it means that now, you have to put in your time," the Doctor said. "Travel with us. Because the TARDIS already knows you, and the only way that can happen is if somewhere in time, you became her friend."

Larry stood with his mouth open for quite a few moments. A smile spread across his face, but he still had no idea what to say. Eventually, he fell backwards against a railing and gave a great exhale, and a great laugh.

"So where would you like to go first?" Martha asked.

"Erm, home," he said. "Just to pack a bag. Can I do that? And also to talk to my girlfriend… wait, can she come? Can Tish travel with us?"

Martha laughed out loud. "Oh God!"

The Doctor sucked in two lungs full of air, and decided upon exhaling, "We'll ask her, I suppose. Why on Earth not?"

* * *

They had left Larry in his flat, back in good old 2008 London, and agreed to meet him later on in a park, after he spoke to, and collected, Tish. They had no concrete idea of when he would turn up, so, in this park was where the TARDIS now stood, unnoticed by any passers-by.

"So, I reckon the TARDIS will need a rest now," Martha said, sliding round the console and nudging up close. She remembered the Doctor's having said that the effort the TARDIS had exerted would deplete her significantly.

"I reckon she will," he replied, putting an arm around her. He kissed the top of her head. "I guess we'll take her to Cardiff for a two- or three-day pit-stop, after Tish comes aboard."

"Cardiff as our first adventure. She'll be ever-so thrilled," Martha chuckled.

"You two aren't going to fight, are you?"

"Nah," Martha said. "We'll be fine. Long as we each have our own space, and our own… you know… entertainment."

The Doctor smiled. "I see." Then, after a beat, "Wait, am I your entertainment?"

"Yeah," she told him, sheepishly. She turned and leaned with her bum against the console.

He looked past her for a few moments, and said, "Well, I can think of worse roles in life. It sure does sound a lot better than spending centuries as Missy's foil. Or her keeper. Babysitter."

She grabbed him gently by the lapels and pulled him toward her, pressing herself between him, and the console. She leaned up for a kiss, and he obliged, of course.

"So, what will we do for three days in Cardiff?" she asked, batting her eyelashes.

"I dunno. Entertain each other?"

* * *

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